The Litter Box

I feel like I should say something...

2011-12-21T04:30:00.000-05:00

Before something utterly SHITTY happened today, I was going to be all roses and wine and smiley emoticons and tell you all that now that I am divorced and living my life, blogging has lost its sparkle. It's need. It's urgency.

Which isn't to say that I'm Brett Favre: I'm not saying that I'm GONE FOREVER AND EVER only to come back again and again. Indeed that's not the case. But when my evening winds down, I realize that I just don't have as much of a need to share quippy stories and clever comebacks and classroom antics.

(Plus, let's admit it...this blog is tied to my past. The people who know about it, might STILL read it, have no business knowing about my new life...know this blog...which I gotta say influences my desire to share content.)

I find that I now more than before, I want to have a life. I want to be around people and do things and try things and be things that maybe I wasn't so comfortable doing before. I want to LIVE. And not just write about what has already passed.

I've made a concerted effort to DO STUFF, particularly when my kids aren't home with me. Going out with friends or even by myself just so that I'm not sitting around feeling crappy (which still happens from time to time). This has been a positive result of a crap situation.

And I like it.

I find that I use Facebook to express my daily thoughts, which I can do in a less expanded form, which means it takes less time, which means you don't love me anymore.

But you can try. 'Cause I'm really lovable. And cute.

Check back often. I mean, I'll be around for sure. But I didn't want to just disappear for the immediate time leaving you to wonder about me and my life. (I know you would.) So, guys, we aren't breaking up...we're just on a break.

Meanwhile, I'm going to the local pub to get my fun on.

Not quitting yet

2011-12-12T04:30:00.000-05:00

Last week was A WEEK.

Ugh.

I have a student who is the bane of my existence. A button pusher. A real problem.

We began the week with birthday presents she'd brought for me, by mid-week she was standing at the front of the classroom yelling that she hates me, and by Friday she was defiant and difficult at best.

I refuse to write it all down because it consumed me all week and I am trying to put it behind me.

Really, it was a week where I thought about what other jobs I am suited for that pay enough money to keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed (read: poor).

Coming up with exactly NOTHING, I figured I'd have to stick it out.

Then, as if the universe knew that I needed a sign, I got an email from a mom of a previous student who is now in 9th grade across the country. She included the essay her daughter wrote about someone who influenced her life. Here's a bit:

"Mrs. Mann was instrumental in teaching me fractions, matter, and nouns, for sure, but her real lessons, what she actually wanted us to take away from 5th grade, were far more important: act inappropriately sometimes because no one ever *really* gets in trouble for running down the hall; stop what you're doing every once in awhile to make sure everyone is smiling, and if they aren't, stand on a table and tell jokes until they do; and most importantly, never forget how important it is to make other people valued."

Yup. I'm going back tomorrow.

My boy

2011-12-07T04:30:00.000-05:00

Last night was the cross country banquet.

This is met, yearly, with heavy sighs, leaden feet, and resentment.

Yes, my anti-social son actually prefers NOT to go the large gathering of people where runners are recognized, awards are given out, and big deals are made. But, because his mother asked him to, because it is a "last," Reed went to the banquet.

To add insult to social expectations, the coach asked Reed, a co-captain, to say a few words as a senior "reflection."

Oy.

He REFUSED to put anything on a notecard, even when I coached him, told him that it would be nice to have a specific anecdote to share, no matter how short. Denial.

But, we tromped over to the banquet facility, ran to the door dodging raindrops, and took a seat in the corner. We sat through opening remarks, Reed's terrible awkward thirty second speech, and warmed banquet food.

Then the awards.

Blah, blah, blah, most improved...varsity letters...blah, blah, blah, Tim Cook Scholarship Award: REED MANN.

It's whatever. My kid won a cross country scholarship renewable for all four years of college.

SHUT UP.

Love my kid.

Don't Worry

2011-12-05T04:30:00.000-05:00

Part of me wants to apologize for being MIA from the blog.

(I do ever so love my blog.)

BUT, at the same time, less blogging just means more LIVING.

This is something that I didn't really DO until recently. I mean, BD I was pretty much a wife/mom doing wife/mom types of things. Now, AD, I find myself with chunks of time where I have no real responsibilities.

THAT'S NOT TRUE.

I ALWAYS have responsibilities.

But what is true is that I can choose to be responsible and stay at home and have no life and do school work and watch TV and go to bed at a reasonable hour and never meet anyone and die a spinster...or I can DO SOMETHING.

And, in keeping with my December 1st turn around date, I decided to DO SOMETHING.

So, last week I kept myself busy while my kids were with their dad. I went out to dinner with a friend, I went Christmas shopping with another friend, I went to dinner and a play at the high school with another friend, I went to dinner and a play with another friend, and I went out to a bar (gasp) with yet another friend.

SHUT UP.

Can you see why I wasn't blogging?

This week I will happily ensconce myself in life as a mom, the job I truly love and wouldn't trade for ANYTHING. Because my kids are here. And I love being their mom.

But when they aren't here, I plan on being Sherry. I'm a person. I have interests. I don't want to identify myself solely by my children. Plus, they aren't sticking around forever, so I guess it makes good sense to find something for me in the meantime.

Starting Wednesday, and just about every Wednesday to follow, yet ANOTHER friend (can you believe so many people like me? I can't.) are going to go to a local bar/restaurant for some food (wings for me, thank you) and to play a trivia game. I was introduced to it by another friend and it was FUN. Much more fun than I expected, so she and I decided to form a team.

I know, I know...it't not MUCH, but it's a start. And there are other real live adults there, so who knows what kind of trouble we will get into?

All I know is that I am trying to embrace my new normal and this seems like a good start.

Mindset

2011-11-29T04:30:00.000-05:00

So, can you pick a day and DECIDE that from that day forth things will be different? BETTER?

Is happiness merely a mindset that you can choose to have? To find and take hold of?

The other day when I was down in the dumps (putting up the Christmas tree for the first time with the new version of my family), I found myself in a parking lot near my house. Crying. Like pretty hard. Of course, I perpetuated this by listening to music. Loudly. The kind that would make me more sad.

I'm typical like that.

It was at that point, my lowest, that I texted a friend known for being funny, mentioning the bit about the crying, the parking lot, the Christmas tree...yanno. This was the response:

What happened next, as you can see, was that I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a car pull up beside mine. And I laughed. Which was the reaction he was going for, I suppose.

We had a conversation, one that he steered, one that he somehow orchestrated in about 58 seconds during the drive to the parking lot. I found that amazing.

He first got out a box of horrible, terrible Christmas ornaments from his car. He told me that he and his college friends have a tradition of exchanging the most hideous ornaments they can find with the stipulation that the ornament must be prominently displayed on the tree for every year after.

Purpose: Maybe all we needed was to create a new tradition that would be ours as we go into this new normal.

Then he told me about a church he went to that morning to "try out." While he knows I'm not a religious person, he said that the sermon was interesting because they discussed the difference between optimism and hope: optimism being the thought there there is enough evidence to believe that things will be better, while hope looks at the evidence and realizes it doesn't look good but decides to take a leap of faith to create new possibilities.

Purpose: Realize that things don't always look good but that you have the power to change things.

Then he let me vent. I got a hug. We joked around. And I went home and decorated the tree with Tatum and Griffin. Without tears.

I think happiness can be a mindset. It can be something that you decide. And when things don't look good, you just cling to it, ride the wave to the shore, straighten your suit, and go again.

I'm thinking December 1st. That's my day. My HAPPINESS DAY.

I should probably come with a warning label.

2011-11-28T04:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I think I'm too complicated.

I realize this is a very self-centered way of thinking because I know you guys are ALL pretty messed up, too. Everyone has issues from their childhood, relationships, marriages and divorces. I know that.

But still, sometimes I think I'm too complicated. (It's MY blog after all, so let me have this.)

And, it is during these times that I fancy being on my own (notice I avoided the word "alone") for the rest of my days. It's not necessarily connected to depression, so don't go getting all worried about me. It's just a thought, simple really, that I would quite possibly do better if I was on my own.

This December I'll be 43 years old. (Holy shit. 43.) That means that, if I am the average American (I do prefer to think of myself as ABOVE average, but for argument's sake), I'd have a good 35 - 40 years left. I don't smoke, I don't drink, I eat healthy foods, I exercise moderately. I could, as most predictors show (and barring all potentially unexpected digs at my mortality) live to be 80 years old. My grandmother did.

How would it be to live for 40 years on my own? I have no answer for this. (But probs not that great.)

The thing is, I don't have any idea how to do THIS - THIS being meeting someone, dating, being together. (And I'm not looking for anyone to fix this for me, so just read and think...but don't solve.)

I don't know how to date. I've dated exactly three guys in my life. One was a three date deal in 9th grade; one was a hot Asian dude from Laos who danced to Pet Shop Boys like none other in college; and one who married me. This, as I look back, might have been a mistake. Perhaps I should have opened myself up to more people.
I don't understand flirting. I've been told I inadvertently flirt, giving the wrong impression to many a confused guy. I also don't have a clue when someone is flirting with me. If flirting is a language, it is foreign to me.

It all stems back to my childhood.

And perhaps this is the most frustrating part of the entire situation: I can intellectually summarize exactly what happened to me, what I am doing, and yet I seem to be powerless to fix/stop/remedy the situation.

I was not on the receiving end of unconditional love as a child. If I wanted my mother to love me, I grew to understand that there were conditions to being loved. However, it wasn't as if there was a list of rules or expectations to which I could aspire. Not at all. In fact, the rules and expectations were ever changing at the very whim of my mother, who would decide on the turn of a dime that what I had or hadn't done made me unworthy of speaking to for a day, a few days, or a week. Scrambling to fix it, I would take exhaustive strides to be back in her graces, all while knowing that there was a 100% chance that at any moment the rules and expectations would change yet again and I would be back in a black hole of despair. It was in these moments, the ones where my very own mother refused to speak to me, that I grew to believe I was unworthy of anyone's love.

To my credit, I never gave up. I always worked diligently to secure my mother's love and approval.

It wasn't until I was an adult, with children of my own, that a therapist said, "There is nothing wrong with you. You are worth loving. In fact, your own mother loved you for sure, but it was as if she spoke a foreign language that you didn't understand, and so when she was telling you that she loved you, the words made no sense."

There was no lack of tears that day. I felt renewed. I felt lighter. I felt better.

I could be loved.

However, it isn't that simple.

Regardless of what I know, what I have been told, what makes sense in a logical way, all those years with my mother robbed me of the ability to trust that I am worthy of being liked (let's not even entertain the idea that I could be loved). I never believe that someone likes me - in a friendly way or otherwise. I can always find a way to turn a simple statement into the language my mother spoke, and so a "I really like you, Sherry," sounds like, "Let's just be friends because you are too much work." And with the onset of texting as a major form of communication, I can look back upon texts days later and turn them into any concoction of passive-aggressive, hidden meaning, flat out dislike for Sherry messages.

Listen potential suitors, you don't stand a chance.

Usually, anyone foolish enough to try to enter my circle will be unwittingly tested. I don't do it on purpose, I don't realize it until I've done it, and I can't seem to stop myself.

See, if you act like you want to be my friend (or more), I will push you away - hard - to see if you will come back.

Ridiculous, I know. (Trust me, this entire post is rather difficult for me to write, cathartic though it may be.) But it's a subconscious need for me to push you away to see if you really do like me enough to fight back. I can tell because, even though my push seems baseless to you, for me it is a litmus test.

Sadly, if you do come back, I generally think that you did so only because you feel sorry for me.

WHO WANTS TO BE WITH SHERRY NOW? (Line starts to the left.)

Yeah, so I probably need to work through my issues. JC (at one time) and my very close friends have all managed to make me feel as though I am worth their time and effort. But why would anyone else want to make the effort? Let's face it, I'm not exactly a catch (43 year old teacher with three teenagers and a crazy mother and an adorable house that is prone to flooding), so when I push, most people will think, "Thank goodness I can walk away from THAT one."

Seems like a warning label is only fair.

I just hope someone ignores it and walks straight toward me. I'm just saying.

Vacation

2011-11-21T21:20:00.001-05:00

I'm going to take the week off.

I hope you'll be back...

Like Eminem, she's been sent here to destroy me.

2011-11-16T04:30:00.000-05:00

There is a girl in my class who is killing me.

You think I'm joking, that this can't be literal - surely it is figurative.

But I assure you that she is LITERALLY KILLING ME.

I try very hard to like all of my students. I realize they are all unique individuals, they all have a set of goals, an IQ score, past mistakes, personality quirks. THAT sort of stuff. I don't know that I truly LOVE all of my students, but I like most of them, for sure.

And I know that they desperately want me to like them.

This is not self-centeredness; think back to when you were in elementary school; you wanted your teacher to like you, to see you as something special. Even if for just a moment.

This girl? SHE IS THE DEVIL. Or WORKS for Beelzebub. 'Cause somebody done told her about my buttons and she spends EVERY WAKING MOMENT pushing them.

For example, yesterday morning she came into the classroom smiling and laughing, holding a large piece of poster board in her hands.

devil spawn: "This is for you, Mrs. Mann!"

She hands it to me and I turn it over, partially shielding my eyes at the unknown, when I see that in fact, it says, "Mrs. Mann is fabulous!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (Her exclamation points, not mine.) Made of noodles and paint and leftover string, it was obviously a labor of love.

Or just another way to lead me to the doorway to hell to see if I am stupid enough to step back in.

Moments after I place the poster exclaiming my greatness for all to see, she rolls her eyes at me, talks back, lies about her homework, refuses to sit down and do her morning work, and then refuses to STAND UP for the National Anthem.

THIS, or something like it, goes on for 7 hours a day. EVERY DAY. She even comments on my school blog after hours lest I forget THAT SHE IS STILL TORMENTING ME.

Look, I did the whole, "she's just doing this because she doesn't know how to work towards positive attention, so she shoots for negative attention because at least it's attention." I tried, really I did. I asked her to lunch in the room with me. I let her stay after for extra help on a math concept she bombed. I complimented her in Social Studies IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.

And still she takes a shit on me.

The only thing I can come up with is that she was SENT HERE TO DESTROY ME.

Guys? We're on day 55. I don't think I can do 120 more of these.

A Mantra

2011-11-14T04:30:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I read a lot of books. I mean, A LOT of books.

Living where I did (my parents choose Narnia, while the rest of the kids from my school were in a different phone exchange - for today's youth, that's the equivalent of NOT HAVING A PHONE), I had next to nothing to do. School wasn't a challenge for me and summers could drag on forever, so I read.

I read series, stand alone books, books from my parents' bookshelves, borrowed books from the library, books from my bookshelf, and books from my grandmother's house (she worked for Book of the Month, so, yeah, a lot of books).

I remember one particular summer day where I sat in a lawn chair and read Misery in its entirety. (Oh, how I loved Stephen King as a teenager.)

My love of books grew into a love of writing, which, well, you know.

Over the weekend I stumbled upon an article written in earnest by a twenty-one year old male student at Berkley.

IT MOVED ME IN A WAY I CANNOT EXPLAIN.

So, I want you to read it.

You Should Date an Illiterate Girl (it's two pages - YOU HAVE TO READ BOTH)

I'm not saying that I regret any of the choices I made when I was nineteen years old. LOOK AT MY CHILDREN. I don't have any regrets.

But I will say this - I feel like this article is my mantra. I don't want to be afraid to have the kind of life I deserve. I just have to wait until I ready...but every day I feel more ready.

Half way house

2011-11-11T04:30:00.000-05:00

There's too much to get done in a normal school day, yet expectations run ridiculously HIGH.

Do this, and this, and this, and don't forget THIS, and make sure your kids participate in this, and send this home, and do report cards, and juggle bowling balls, and don't fall asleep in class, and ARE YOU HAVING FUN? STOP IT.

I love my jobs, but if it weren't for the kids, I'd give it up and find one of them there jobs you leave behind you when you go home.

Last night I was troubled by the young lady who ate lunch with me in my classroom yesterday. She ate every bite of her (kinda yucky school lunch), scavenged food off of other trays and from within other lunch bags...and when that wasn't enough, she straight up ate three packs of mayonnaise, "because I never know if we're having dinner or not."

Sigh.

But this week I offered to stay after school for a total of three hours if any of my kids wanted to participate in the Martin Luther King, Jr. essay contest that is supported locally in our community. The prompt was REALLY HARD, so of the ten kids who raised their hands (not bad, 50%), only four were allowed to stay because they could specifically say what they were going to write about. (The other six heard I baked treats and thought that if they pretended to want to write the essay, they might get to partake.)

So, Tuesday night we sent the rest of the class home and tromped back to our room. We had a snack, brainstormed, and started writing.

Look, I don't REALLY mind doing this. I mean, my kids were with me this week, but they aren't home much before 4:30 anyway, so I wasn't missing that much time with them. And it's report card week, so there are certainly 26 (plus 28 plus 22) report cards to get ready. Not to mention giving up my normal "get ready for tomorrow time" at the end of each day. And never mind that I would have to take all of my grading home each night because that time, too, was gone.

I WILL STAY AFTER WITH YOUR KID IF HE OR SHE WANTS TO WRITE!

However, apparently the parents of these kids didn't appreciate my efforts quite as much as I did.

The first mom stuck her head in my doorway at 4:15. I smiled and asked if I could help her. Ignoring me, she called to her daughter, A GIRL I SPEND SEVEN HOURS WITH EVERY SINGLE DAY, and asked her what she was doing in detention.

You. Are. Kidding. Me.

You don't even know why your daughter is staying after? And you show up early to get her? And you don't have ANYTHING to say to me?

At 4:30, the remaining three (and me) walk to the lobby. Two boys walk home (yes! boys like to write, too!), and I'm left with my remaining writerly girl. I asked if her mom knew to pick her up at 4:30. She responded by telling me that an hour earlier, when her mom picked up her little brother, she reminded her.

At 4:55 I asked her to CALL HER MOM AND ASK WHERE SHE WAS.

She didn't answer.

Five minutes later, she called my phone, spoke to her daughter, and hung up.

She wanted her daughter to walk home AFTER ALL OF THAT TIME WE WAITED.

And she offered no apologies.

Really. Half way. Just meet me halfway. Please.

Start shaving my legs

2011-11-10T04:30:00.000-05:00

The other day I was texting a friend like those young kids do. Harmless. Random texts that ended up spreading over two and a half hours on Sunday night.

As the conversation (and clock) were winding down, a very strange thing happened.

HE ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE.

Well, kinda. There was a long, awkward pause after I said something (ahem) particularly funny. I thought he had disappeared (I attract the ADHD types, I suppose) and texted to that end. Then he replied that he was "working on a response." After another awkward silence (lack of texts), he wrote, "I was afraid to ask you out."

So...I guess that's asking me out.

He quickly added a few awkward explanatory texts acknowledging that it was complicated and probably impossible, and I sent a few awkward replies. It went from comfortable, enjoyable friendship to strained "what just happened" moments. Then we managed to awkwardly (again) say goodnight.

I don't even know what to say about this. I really don't. What's a date? How does THAT work? And why did he ask ME?

Before we go any further, let me make it clear that I am, in fact, NOT going on that date. Why, you ask?

Too early - for me and my kids
Too complicated
Flattered but not sure if I'm interested
Totally unexpected
May not have reacted in the best way and therefore may have sent him running
Too complicated (yeah, did I say that already - it's sooooo complicated I can't say it enough times)

I've pretty much obsessed over this for the past few days. Not just the specific incident, but the idea that I might actually need to start shaving my legs again - with regularity - to date someone. (Or as my best friend assures me, to "juggle three guys in about a year."

Of course, being a girl, I also reread the texts multiples times looking for missed nuances, things I said that held subtext, things he said that held subtext, grammatical errors (kidding), and ANYTHING ELSE BECAUSE I'M A GIRL.

It was a strange, strange thing. I'm still not on solid ground. Wish me luck.

Man of my dreams

2011-11-08T04:30:00.000-05:00

I have reoccurring dreams about Dave Grohl. As to the reasons for this, I am unsure.

Dave Grohl is, arguably, an attractive man at his best with gorgeous locks, deep brown, penetrating eyes, and a smirky smile that keeps you guessing. For years I've enjoyed the musical stylings of both Nirvana and Foo Fighters (not so much Them Crooked Vultures, but hey, can't have everything). I find him to be clever AND intelligent, as well as mildly entertaining.

Yet Dave can be a weak-chinned (I'm thinking of an Anna Torv type-chin, which, I gotta say, is a deal breaker for me.) unkempt slacker with bad hair and chubby cheeks at his worst. He has been known to throw temper tantrums and partake in illegal substances.

It must be a wash for I have had many, many dreams in which Dave plays a pivotal role.

I was awoken early last Friday morning, startled because I dreamed that I returned to my house and someone had tossed my dish drainer across the floor of the kitchen and stolen my sofa. Dave Grohl was behind me, holding a baseball bat and looking for the perps. (Why he wasn't in front of me is another subject, one we won't broach today.)

Before that Dave was seen in my classroom, sitting near the back, giving me grief pre-PSSA testing.

And we once took in a Dido concert together, during which Dave stood behind me, holding me around the waist, swaying to the soft sounds of the music. He also, remarkably, knew the words to "Mary's in India." I don't even know the words to that gem.

Dave and I have gone grocery shopping, using jumper cables he once started my stalled car, he held my hand as I crossed a rickety bridge, and he showed up at the tail end of a dream where I was jumping off the diving board into the deep end.

Most dreams are chaste; Dave has done little to further our relationship. I have not discouraged him, but opportunity hasn't arisen.

So, my favorite dream analyzers, what do you suppose it means? I googled for it and got nothing.

A day that will go down in infamy

2011-11-03T04:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, as we walked down the hallway on the way to (glorious) dismissal, I was accidentally privy to a conversation between two cute, clever boys in my class. They weren't exactly trying to keep it a secret from me, but I know that didn't exactly intend for me to hear it either.

Anyway, I was with one of the girls about three kids behind them. She was filling me in on her mom's new baby. I nodded a lot and smiled in her direction, but you'll forgive me if I wasn't paying close attention (here's hoping she didn't say anything IMPORTANT).

student a: "Wait...so what's a MILF again?"
student b: "Ummm, not sure...but I think my dad said Mrs. Mann is one. Wait. Maybe he said she ISN'T one. I can't remember."
student a: "Well, it must mean funny."
student b: "Maybe. But I remember that it didn't seem like funny was what they were talking about."
student a: "But Mrs. Mann is funny. I mean, isn't that what everyone says about her."
student b: "Probably. Yeah, I mean, that makes sense. My dad was laughing."

This, of course, was a fascinating conversation to overhear.

And possibly mildly disturbing.

First of all, ten year olds talking about MILFs? Students' FATHERS talking about whether or not I am a MILF? THE STUDENT NOT REMEMBERING IF HIS DAD SAID I AM ONE. A MILF.

COME ON.

Anyway, I could use the laugh. Or the boost.

'Cause today is the day that I am officially divorced. (That doesn't feel good.)

Walking Dead Daughters

2011-11-02T04:30:00.000-05:00

I'm impressed with myself because I am able to watch WITH BOTH EYES OPEN episodes of The Walking Dead on Sunday evenings.

I know, right? It's ridiculous. I don't even have to hide behind spread fingers.

How about this week? Shane. He's a horrible person...or is he? And what's up with focusing on the lost Sophia. I didn't even know her name until she was suddenly lost and the focus of all things Dead.

Think she was in the high school and saw Shane pull the trigger? Something's gotta give.

Meanwhile enjoy Tatum the zombie all gussied up for Halloween.

Help Wanted

2011-10-31T04:30:00.000-05:00

Yep. I was one of the lucky few to enjoy a rare snowfall in October.

I mean, really. I don't know if it has EVER snowed in October 'round here. At least not that I can remember. And while no one believed the weathermen (can you blame us?), never the less, it did in fact snow in Pennsylvania on Saturday. In fact, ALL DAY Saturday.

It was actually quite beautiful. Amid trees still full of colorful autumn leaves, there lay a blanket of snow.

We snuggled up in the house, post Slammer, with a few of Griffin's friends, some hot chocolate, and a rousing game of Heroscape.

It was just beautiful.

Then the power went out. And the house started to get chilly. Then Tatum realized there was no INTERNET OH MY GOD YOU GUYS HOW WILL I EVER BE ABLE TO TALK TO MY FRIENDS?

Then we heard a very loud CRACK sound - one that reminded us of lightning striking trees in the summer.

TREES. Yup. I happened to be standing in front of the large picture window in my living room as said CRACK sounded and I watched as a very large branch snapped off of the very large tree in my front yard. It snapped off and fell partway to the ground, resting on my car, the roof, and the gutters.

Then another one fell beside it...and another one...and another one.

It is only by strange luck (and possible placement of the sapling 70 years ago) that I do not have a gaping hole in my roof, picture window, and/or car.

I held back the tears, sure that more branches were going to fall - the next time wiping out my house.

And all I could see before me was my $500 deductible. Owning a house. That's FUN.

Alas, while a few more, smaller branches fell, there was no more damage to be had. I moved my car to the parking lot across the street, had a few strapping young men pull the branches away from my house, and tacked the gutter back up.

As I lay in bed Saturday night, tired but unable to sleep, I thought about how nice it would be to have someone around who could DO STUFF. Yanno, cut up branches, call the boro, fix the gutter, clean up the leaves, figure out what to do with the tree that's split like string cheese but still standing in the back yard...

I don't have one of the anymore.

But when I woke up Sunday morning, I realized I am that person. I can DO STUFF. While I haven't always been the DO STUFF person, I am capable.

I posted my plan on FB and an intrepid friend showed up to help, and with a hacksaw, two kids, and a friend, I managed to clean up my yard, fix broken stuff, and ROAR.

Yeah, I know. This was one of those annoying, "yeah, yeah, you're divorced and you can do stuff" posts...but dammit. I felt pretty darn good about it.

Holiday parties

2011-10-28T04:30:00.000-05:00

This week I spent considerable time trying to come up with a costume that would be school appropriate, cool enough to wear in front of 5th graders, easy enough to put together in a week, and cheaper than lint.

Not an easy task.

I even sent out a request via FB, and although there were several decent suggestions, ultimately, none worked out.

Then school happened.

I don't want to be the one to burst your bubble, parents of elementary aged students, but teachers HATE school parties. And the week leading up to the party. And the three hours after the party. And the two and a half hours of the ACTUAL party.

Trust me, we don't WANT to hate the party. We want to enjoy it as much as our class does. (I mean, hell, I even spent a week trying to create a costume for them to appreciate!) We enter into it with the best intentions. Some of us even bake holiday themed cupcakes. Or buy trinkets to share. Or create fun and silly games to play.

But your kids can't handle the excitement and anticipation.

They are full on jittery early in the week of the party. Halfway through the week they cannot keep their mouths shut. And by Friday, the day of said shin-dig, they are bursting at the seams. There can be no learning on this day.

I'm ok with that, too. I mean...I plan "fun" activities for the first half of the party day. Coloring sheets, word games, Halloween math problems. Heck, it's Friday and I'm exhausted, too. Bring on the fun.

But it's the noise. And the chaos. Oh, the chaos.

And please don't ask me about the parade.

So, I think I've decided on a costume this year. I might as well stick with the theme. I guess I'll go as Ebenezer Scrooge.

To call it a party, sheesh...

2011-10-25T04:30:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, Griffin approached me to ask if he and a few friends could throw a "Slammer" in the Eric Foreman basement.

Eric Foreman basement, you ask? Come on, surely you know the Eric Foreman basement. It is only the epitome of awesome underground hang-outtery made famous in That 70s Show. One that we have no actually painstakingly recreated, but have sort of created "in the spirit of" down there where it leaks a lot. We have a second hand couch, two lawn chairs, a dart board, a washer and dryer, and a small foreign guy. (OK, not the foreign guy, but we do have the rest.) Working on an electrical wire spool coffee table. We have a few pieces of cheap carpet scattered around, and this week, we tacked up Christmas twinkle lights for ambiance.

We take our Eric Foreman basement seriously.

There are always kids down there. Talking. Listening to Floyd or the Smiths. Riding scooters around the oil tank.

For your information, THERE IS NO POT SMOKING IN MY BASEMENT.

Just to clarify. In case you've seen the show.

Eric Foreman = Griffin
Fez = Dan Yang
Steven Hyde = Simon
Kelso = hmmm...not sure yet

We have NO GIRLS to play the parts of Jackie and Donna. Yet. Trust me, we're working on it.

ANYWAY, he wanted to have a slammer for about twenty sophomore friends. When asked what a "Slammer" was, he described what I would call a PARTY. Yanno, food, drink, friends, music, darts...that sort of thing.

Calling it a party, however, is apparently OFFENSIVE and if I ever say it AGAIN, I will be branded a noob and confined to my bedroom permanently.

Anyway, there have been countless committee meetings both here and at other locations, several trips to the party outlet, and a few well hung streamers. I believe the boys are serving pretzels, chips, and a new (to them) soda they discovered called Squirt. "It's lighter and more refreshing than Sprite."

I'M SORRY. ARE YOU FORTY?

So, if you're planning on stopping by after the big game Friday night, you should probably know that there is no alcohol, dress is smart casual, and you may NOT tell anyone about the Slammer. It's a closed event and if you weren't included on the FB event page, you're not invited.

Bummer? The girl Griffin likes, who I am pretty sure was the impetus behind organizing (and making other people clean, decorate, set up for, and buy supplies for) the Slammer was to have Michaela in the impressive Eric Foreman basement.

But she has a prior commitment.

California or Bust (mostly bust)

2011-10-24T04:30:00.000-05:00

We had the day of from school on October 10th. Woo!

I told Reed that no matter what else he had scheduled that day, we were beginning the college application process. Boo!

So, that Monday afternoon we sat down at the dining room table, computer before us, and began filling out the required page (AFTER PAGE AFTER PAGE) of information for admittance to Virginia Tech.

me: "Wait? Why are we doing Virginia Tech first? Should we be doing one for Cal Poly?"
Reed: "Ummm, yeah, about that..."
me: "Yes?"
Reed: "I was looking at the application over the weekend and I think I found a problem."
me: "Meaning?"
Reed: "I don't think I can apply anymore."
me: "Say WHAT?"
Reed: "I don't think I have the required courses."
me: "You're acting like this is NOT A BIG DEAL."
Reed: "I'm going to talk to my counselor on Thursday. Then I'll know."
me: "Thursday?!"
Reed: "That's my next study hall."

We filled out most of the application for Virginia Tech instead. I say we, but I was mostly just moral support, sitting beside him to make sure he didn't get distracted by THE INTERNET. (It happens, people.)

FINALLY Thursday rolled around.

me: "So? What happened?"
Reed: "Can I come in the house first?"
me: "Sure. Whatever."

We sat down and chatted. Which is to say, I talked about it and asked questions, and he looked longingly at the shower. Here's what I got out of him: while in the counselor's office, she placed a call to the REAL LIVE admissions office of the California State Polytechnic Institute in San Luis Obispo. She asked what would happen if they received an application from a student who was top ten in his class, had whatever-whatever SAT and ACT scores, but had taken no "arts" courses. She politely said they would toss the application into the trash without looking for it.

So, yeah. State schools in California require you to take ARTS classes. And while that might not seem like a big deal to YOU, it is to Reed. He has no interest in anything that isn't concrete. See, you can't tell if a painting is good because there is no definitive matrix against which to compare it. A piece of music is "awesome" if you think so - even if your friend disagrees.

Reed likes math and science where THINGS CAN BE PROVEN.

When it came time to choose high school electives, he took German, computer programming, and tech ed courses. All related to the field a boy who hopes to work on engines for Formula 1 cars based in European countries would need.

But not enough for that boy to be able to pursue his degree in California.

To which I say, "Cal Poly - you're a STATE SCHOOL! What's with the bizarre standards?!"

There was a hail Mary - where the counselor took a look at his schedule and said he could drop Java and Tech Ed and pick up AP Art History and Sculpting.

This is like being sort being pregnant. It's not going to happen, people.

A family friend, who is also a teacher, was over for dinner just days after it all went down. He tried to persuade Reed to consider taking PE online, and maybe an arts class online as well. Didn't work.

Looks like we're putting our early decision eggs in the Hokie basket.

*UPDATE: At dinner he reneged on early decision to VT, but did agree to visit the campus when XC is over.

The Vine

2011-10-21T04:30:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I was a happily (can you say that when YOU were but now you don't know if the other person was?) married wife and mother. With three beautiful children, I was living a fairy tale life of a stay at home mom. (God, some days I wanted to gouge my eyes out, but still.)

So, it only seems appropriate that I painted a long, trailing vine on the wall of our second home and began tracing the heights of our children along the vine to mark growth, change, passage of time, and milestones.

My kids stood proudly, still, backs against the wall, as I marked their heights with a Sharpie, then added the date and their ages. They'd compare themselves to their siblings to see who was taller at a certain age.

All was good.

Then we moved. To a more modern house. Less fairy tale.

And although I'd traced all of the information onto a long, scrolling piece of paper, it never found its way onto the wall at that house. It didn't seem to fit.

I guess I didn't either.

After the decisions were made regarding the house at the time of the BIG D, I packed up my things and moved out. And while I left the obvious things (so as not to upset my kids), I took sentimental things that I had boxed and packaged and bagged up over the course of my (almost) nineteen years as a married person.

I thought one of those things was the growth chart.

Alas, it wasn't. And after an exhaustive search, it was nowhere to be found.

I lost a few nights sleep over this, I'll have you know. And cried my eyes out. (OK. Maybe I cried my eyes out because EVERYTHING I THOUGHT I KNEW WAS NOW GONE, but losing that chart certainly didn't help).

Then, through an odd set of circumstances, I got in touch (via FB, natch) with the woman who now owns that house. The house with the vine. Weird, right?

AND THEY HADN'T PAINTED OVER THE VINE IN THE FOUR YEARS THEY'D BEEN LIVING THERE?! What are the chances?

But, after a month or so of stalling, she allowed me to come to her (once my) house and trace the heights from the playroom (now bedroom) wall.

I KNOW. SHUT UP.

I brought the new scroll back to my zippy little 1940's house and promptly traced them onto my new vine.

I'm not to proud to tell you that I cried while I was doing it. Mostly they were happy tears. When I traced the one where Reed was 6 years old, I thought about my little first grader. And when I traced the one where Griffin was 4, I thought about how he was always so bummed that he was shorter than his brother and sister were at the same age. And when I traced Tatum at 2 years, I saw her tiny little body and her cute little curls.

I particularly liked this piece of history:

Check out my weed-like daughter.

So, yeah, new beginnings and all, I GET THAT PEOPLE. But there ain't nothing wrong with a little history.

Taking back what's mine

2011-10-20T04:30:00.000-05:00

It was weird enough when I moved out of the house in July. Because of the market, and because staying in the same house when it was obvious one of us didn't want to be in the same room, we agreed that JC would keep that gigantic house and I would find one that was suitable to my needs and budget.

MY HOUSE!

You guys know that I love my super cool 1940s leaky house.

Of course, this whole DIVORCE thing was nearly deadly for the kids. I mean, come on. Obviously.

So, when I left, it was particularly hard to "pack up." I mean, what was I supposed to take?

JC and I agreed to some basics - I would take most of the kitchen stuff since I was the cook while he would keep most of the tools since he was the tool (too much? Come on, that was funny?) guy.

But since the kids would be doing a 50 - 50 split between houses (ugh - said most of us) it got dicey when it came to taking things from around JC's house that would be missing in a more obvious way.

When it came to things like furniture...I left ninety percent of it there and bought new stuff. (Karma, too.)

When it came to photos on the wall...I left them.

This was the hardest thing.

It wasn't just PHOTOS. It was PHOTOS.

(ironic that my photo of my photos is so crappy...)

I'd spent considerable time over the course of our LIFE together establishing a complex and adorable and meaningful and lovely wall of photos. Over fifty framed 5 x 7 photos of my kids, my husband, my pets, my LIFE lining the wall going up the staircase. And it followed us from house to house.

I left them all there. All of the photos of my babies.

Heartbreaking.

But Tatum asked me to leave them. Her fear? JC wouldn't fill the gaps on the wall. And I didn't want to make it appear as though I was TAKING things from them, if that makes sense at all.

BUT.

But, it's been months now and things have normalized (or ARE normalizing). So. SO. I asked JC for a share of the photos. I warned the kids that some of the photos would go missing, but that I thought it was OK now to have my share. To bring them to my house.

I hung them on the wall in the dining room. My babies. MY babies.

It's not the same as seeing them trail up the stairs, but I don't have stairs here in my super cool, single mom house. But I walk through the dining room ALL THE TIME, so I see the photos just as often.

It feels so right to have my babies back. I even ordered a few new photos to start off my new photo wall in my new house in my new life.

No Child My Ass

2011-10-18T04:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was an interesting day.

Remember when I wrote about avocados? Any of my old school followers remember the post about ketchup?

I had a similar experience during reading on Monday.

We were reading a book about whales. Whales are FASCINATING to 5th graders. Actually ALL non-fiction is fascinating to 5th graders - but NO ONE every chooses it when we go to the library.

Figure THAT ONE out, Einstein.

So I picked a book about whales; one that lent itself well to main idea/supporting details - POSSIBLY THE HARDEST CONCEPT EVER. I'm not even exaggerating.

Other requirement - enough copies in the book room. Minor FREAKING detail.

ANYWAY, we get to the part about what whales eat. And YOU GUYS - it seems like some of these whales are a bit cannibalistic. Yup. THEY EAT OTHER WHALES. It's whatever. It's how they roll.

This started an interesting conversation at the table. And, since reading is two and a half hours of (sometimes) sheer torture, I am always open to a good discussion - as long as I can reign in the troops should the principal decide to do a drive by.

student 1: "Ewwwww."
me: "What?"
student 1: "They eat OTHER WHALES?"
me: "Well, among other things. See?" (pointing to text 'cause I'm all about USING CONTEXT to support my ideas) "They also eat smaller mammals like sea lions and penguins."
student 2: "You aren't making this any better, Mrs. Mann."
student 1: "It's just gross. How can they do that? Seals are SO CUTE."
me: "Come on! You guys eats some things that are decidedly CUTE."
student 1: "Like what?"
me: "Chickens. Cows. PIGS."
student 1: (pushes desk away from table) "Excuse me? I do NOT eat pigs. I eat chicken, but they ugly."
me: (ignoring the last part) "You eat pigs...guys...guys?"

(blank looks)

me: (addressing the whole class) "Someone help me out. You guys eats pigs, right? Put your hand up if you eat pigs."

(a few hands go up; some kids put hands up when they see a friend's hand go up; only some look confident)

me: "BACON. PORK CHOPS. HAM."
student 1: "But that stuff is bacon. And chops. And ham."
me: "WHICH COMES FROM A PIG."
student 1: "You joking me?"
student 2: (leaning in close to me) "Really? Like Wilbur?"

YES! LIKE WILBUR!

Now listen, if this is where we are starting AND WE ARE ALREADY TEN OR ELEVEN YEARS OLD there's gonna be a child left behind. I'm sorry. LEFT. BEHIND.

Maybe even TWO OR THREE.

I can't start with adverbs and cause and effect and adding fractions with unlike denominators, Mr. President.

I GOTTA START WITH WHERE BACON COMES FROM.

No, really. Gay.

2011-10-17T04:30:00.000-05:00

(insert Homecoming photo here)

This weekend was Homecoming.

Well, the whole week was filled with activities, and now that Griffin is an elected official (questionable judgment starts early in voters, apparently), he was out almost every night.

Of course it had to be MY WEEK.

But I smiled as he went to Wingin' It practice. And I nodded when he went to Shakespeare and then to a meeting. I wished him luck as he headed out to the Dodgeball Tournament. I (secretly) applauded when Powder Puff Football was cancelled due to rain. And I gave him a few bucks when he headed to the football game.

And yes, he realized midweek that none of his dress pants fit and he would need to squeeze in a shopping trip. Oh, and his black belt and dress shoes were at his dad's house BUT HE DIDN'T REALIZE THAT until the following evening.

ANYWAY.

In the weeks leading up to the dance, I became Griffin's MO-OM, which is to say, I had the nerve to ask who he was going to take to the dance. I mean, I was relatively sure I knew who he LIKED liked, but that didn't mean anything.

me: "So, what's the sitch with the dance?"
him: "What? No sitch."
me: "Come on. Who are you asking?
him: "No one."
me: "But...but...I thought you liked Michaela?"
him: "It's dumb."
me: "Why? What's dumb?"
him: "She's already going with someone."
me: "What? How come?"
him: "She was afraid Jon was going to ask her, so she asked someone before he could."
me: "Well, that sucks."
him: "Yeah. The guy she's going with is gay."
me: "I don't think name calling is necessary."

Seems the guy she went with IS ACTUALLY GAY.

So, Griffin spent the evening dancing, holding hands, and going to Dairy Queen post dance with Michaela. He had a WONDERFUL night.

No word on the gay guy.

Shoot me

2011-10-12T04:14:00.000-05:00

Insert long post here that wasn't deleted by Blogger when I tried to add a photo.

It was a swimming upstream kind of day.

Opps, I did it again.

2011-10-11T04:13:00.000-05:00

So, yanno. Yesterday was a weird day. WEIRD.

I mean, I recounted all of the milestone moments of the DAY I GOT MARRIED like I do every year. Waking up. Getting dressed. Going to the church. The vows. The reception. The dancing. The cake.

Yanno. MY WEDDING DAY.

As I was wondering if I would ever face October 10th as anything other than THAT day, I ADOPTED A KITTEN.

Yeah. I could have sat around and felt sorry for myself, or sad, or out-of-place, or lonely, or happy (?), but instead there was a kitten in need of a home and I TOOK HER IN.

Of course, now Daggers HATES us and Mama REFUSES to come into the house. So, pretty much normal.

BUT YOU GUYS. She absolutely adorable. She's black with little brown flecks. Her right ear is missing the top third. The bottom of her mouth is half brown. And she likes to STRETCH out her little arms when she is snuggling on your lap. WHICH IS SOMETHING SHE LOVES TO DO.

She's about five months old (it's an approximation) and has already been spayed. No fleas this time. ADORABLE.

Names we considered:

Steve McQueen
Sweet Dee
Harper
Charley
Lisa
Michaela
Darth Vader

In the end, we named her Esther.

Lord help the kitten.

p.s. We had a discussion and it was decided that TEN CATS make you the Crazy Cat Lady. TEN CATS. So I'm ok, yo.

The end

2011-10-10T07:37:00.000-05:00

Today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary.

Yesterday, when JC dropped Tatum off for her week with me, he mentioned it. Our anniversary.

I wasn't sure what he thought I would say, or wanted me to say, but I'm pretty sure I didn't say whatever it was that he was hoping I'd say.

I would have worried myself sick about that a few months ago.

Don't have to do THAT anymore.

In twenty-four days we'll be divorced. A new anniversary.

One I'm JUST as psyched about.

50/50 (Movie Review)

2011-10-05T04:16:00.000-05:00

Here's a movie that elicits an emotional response from me - and it's NOT just because of the presence of JGL. 50/50 is an semi-autobiographical story that combines a dramatic and comedic look at THE BIG C.

Adam (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is a 27 year old Seattle-ite who loves his works at the local NPR station, where he spends his days alongside his best friend, Kyle (Seth Rogen). At home he's got a girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard), a chick who's both "hot" and artsy. Seems life is moving along at a satisfying clip.

Until recurring back pain is diagnosed as a rare, malignant form of cancer.

Here's where the story could turn into a Lifetime extravaganza...but doesn't. JGL manages to show raw emotion when it's called for, yet deliver comedic lines with great ease in the next scene. Here's a fantastic leading man in line for more starring roles.

What's makes 50/50 even richer are the character studies of those around Adam, those who are also trying to cope with his illness beside him. Standouts include the awful Rachael (Bryce Dallas Howard, who, after The Help is running the risk of being typecast as a bitch) as the girlfriend who says she'll stick around but only because she thinks it's what she's supposed to do, not what she wants to do. You know this because she's caught cheating on a chemo-induced vomiting Adam at a bar by his best friend, Kyle. Kyle, on the other hand, is a brash, foul mouthed, seemingly unsympathetic buddy who uses Adam's illness as a gateway to meeting chicks. But it's also evident that Kyle refuses to face the severity of the situation because he can't imagine life without his best friend.

Best of all is Anna Kendrick, the young therapist in way over her head, as the counselor assigned to help Adam come to terms with his diagnosis. He's Katherine's third patient, and it's obvious. She's unsure how to share a comforting touch, displaying an emotional tenderness while being slightly terrified of her responsibilities. She's adorable in her tentativeness which is offset by a real determination. They make a terrific almost couple. (If it weren't for the damn cancer.)

There is so much that is great about this film. I'd even pay to see it again.

A little ER for your Friday night?

2011-10-04T04:26:00.000-05:00

Except I'm not talking about the George Clooney kind, so it isn't truly that exciting.

So, it's cliche, but there is this thing about sending your kids out into the world and worrying about THE CALL. Getting THE CALL.

And, when your child insists on teaching himself tricks on his BMX bike, the nervousness associated with the possibility of THE CALL increases ten fold.

Here's Griffin in happier moments - say 4:30pm on Friday.

Here's what he looked like around 5:50pm on Friday.

Yep. Got THE CALL.

Understand that my child does NOT ride a bike without a helmet. Never has. Geez, when he was three and tooling around on one of those plastic contraptions with no pedals - he needed a helmet. Child has never known fear or caution.

But, a helmet only protects certain aspects of your head - and your face isn't one of them.

About two weeks ago, Griffin had a similar, albeit much less serious, accident similar to this one. His face was scratched, the inside of his mouth was severely cut from his braces rubbing against them in the collision with the cement. But he was fine.

Not so lucky this time.

While doing his second attempt (his first being successful - "but you have to do it twice or the first time was a fluke") of bunny hopping over a chain that was about waist high, his back tire caught the chain and he flew off the bike and landed face first on the cement. Then his bike bounced and hit him in the face.

THE CALL came from a friend who called both JC and I. We happened to be together, meeting in a parking lot to arrange something for Tatum's birthday present. I jumped into the van and we sped off to find him (details on his location were sketchy).

He was standing in a church parking lot a few miles from my house surrounded by four friends. His face was a bloody, bleeding mess. He was freaking out pretty badly. We tossed the bike in the car and paid a $70 visit to the ER. I think because of the amount of blood and the noise he was making, they took us back quickly.

His face is bruised, swollen, covered in cuts and road rash, and generally just PAINFUL, of more serious concern is his teeth. Seems he hit them pretty hard, dislodging and relocated two. Pretty significantly. He can't close his teeth together, his braces are mangled, and he is basically depressed as all get out that he is going to lose them. (I'm pretending it isn't an option because I can't bear to think of the possibility that it could actually happen just yet.)

Meanwhile, back at the house, my poor daughter was turning 14 with five of her girlfriends and NOT ME.

Sigh.

Within half an hour, one of the boys that had been with Griffin posted a video of the crash on FB and Griffin sat in his hospital bed fielding texts from worried friends.

Not looking forward to this week. Cross your fingers for his teeth.

I'm in LOVE

2011-09-30T04:16:00.000-05:00

And it's very Awkward.

(See what I did just there?)

Tuesday was a very sad day for me. It was the season finale of what I consider to be one of the best shows on TV right now, MTV's Awkward.

After a season full of complicated relationships, annoying bitches, and high school situations, Jenna made her choice (TEAM JAKE) and we found out who probs (totes) wrote the care-frontation letter that sent Jenna into a tailspin during her sophomore year.

Here's what I love about the show: the writing is pretty fantastic.

Let's be honest, Matty was pretty unlikeable when the show debuted. And, although I was rooting for the willing-to-play-the-dork-and-totes-treat-Jenna-right Jake, by the time the credits rolled on the finale, I felt legit bad for Matty. He was a guy who started out as a selfish dick and ended up as a sweet, well-meaning if immature potential boyfriend. Plus he totally did a meet cute with Jenna's BFFs.

And I was in love with the hand holding metaphor. Looking for a boy who would go public with Jenna, it wasn't the limo or the corsage or even the dancing that made a difference to our heroine. And he didn't expect s-e-x like Matty did when they first hooked up. It was a simple gesture - holding hands. In public. (Just like the best scene from MSCL.)

Sure it's a TV show about the typical teenage stereotypes (with some twists - love/hate the fat bitchy popular captain of the cheerleading squad with the chin-out style of talking), but Awkward has heart.

A Mess

2011-09-29T04:19:00.000-05:00

I have some real gems in my class this year.

I call them the gems although I'm pretty sure no other teacher has ever fully embraced...let's just say, their SPIRIT.

And, you guys, they have a lot of SPIRIT.

Let's face it, I get a disproportionate amount of the unmedicated ADHD kids. It's my curse. I'm "good" with those kids, so they end up populating the desks scattered about my classroom. And the fidgeting, tapping, calling out, avalanching desks, missing assignments, and general LACK of control should drive me nuts.

And yet it doesn't.

There's a basket that sits on the windowsill. It's orange and squishy and filled with fidgets. You know, fidgets:

Anyway, I love my ADHD kids (mostly boys - what up with that, SCIENCE?)

One of them is this extremely creative, ridiculously funny, super goofy boy who is a nice match for my sense of humor. It was a pleasure, you can imagine, when his mother emailed me after Back to School Night to tell me that she had a feeling I would be the first teacher to "get" her son, and that hopefully he would have a good year.

I'm hoping, too.

Today, as the day drew to a close, I noted that his desk AREA was a mess. Papers littered the floor around his desk, his reading bin and all of its contents were strewn about his desk, at least fifty sticky notes THAT ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE USED FOR SMALL READING GROUPS were stuck to different parts of his chair, the legs of his desk, and his FACE, there were at least four unsharpened pencils precariously resting among the mess, and the pizza from our earlier pizza party was plopped smack on the floor under his chair.

He must have noticed me studying the DISASTER because he looked over at me, a big shit eating grin on his face, and said, "That awkward moment when your teacher realizes your office is a mess."

He's a keeper, that one.

Navy beans, navy beans, navy beans.

2011-09-28T04:20:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday, I arrived at school twenty minutes later than usual because weather left children requiring a ride to school, wet from the soaking rain, and behind on my work because of TWO impromptu (although required) meetings the day before - and as I passed my little blue fridge in the hall, under my breath I said, "Shit."

Yep. I'd forgotten my lunch.

I'm SOOOO forgetful that if you take me even the slightest bit out of my routine, I will forget, screw up, or maim something other people - NORMAL people - would notice.

After cursing a bit, I realized the only option (seeing as I was already late and unwilling to return to the seas that were once the parking lot) was to visit the cafeteria ladies and ask them for a hot lunch. They were mostly friendly and offered me a choice of PB&J or a Chix Delux. I put my name on the list for the sandwich as I thought something hot might be good on a chilly, rainy day.

Above is what my $3.85 got me. Yes, because I am an adult and not able to receive subsidizing funds for my school lunch, I pay about twice as much as the "regular" kids, and about four times as much as the "free" lunchers. I don't mind. I mean, I'm the one who screwed up, so I have to pay the price.

But let's chat for a moment about what my money got me.

Starting at the bottom - our school district is SAVING MONEY this year by using STYROFOAM TRAYS. The logic is that the staff won't have to run the dishwashers. FASCINATING, no? I'd like to point out that the environment killing trays have not cut the hours that the cafeteria staff works, so no money saved there - although without having to wash the dishes, what the heck are they STILL DOING THERE? AND (yes, there's more) - the trays have a propensity to break. If you do not carry it with two hands, balancing it ever so carefully in just the precise spot, the tray will SNAP IN HALF. This means not only is the device for transporting your food useless, so is your meal. So they give you another Clux Delux. Money saved? Probs not.

It came with a side of barbecue sauce. Which was encircled by a clear liquid. That was unidentifiable.

MOVING ON.

Next, let's talk about the entree. A Clux Delux, clever as the name may be, is nothing more than a Wendy's chicken sandwich - the one from the dollar menu. Oh, THEY PUT IT ON A WHEAT ROLL, so it's healthy and all. 'Cause deep frying is TOTALLY erased by wheat bread. PLUS, it comes in it's own PACKAGING, another great money saving idea.

Next up, my side dishes. Let's start with questionable perogies. While I normally LOVE perogies, these had been steamed (cauterized? killed? ruined?) - but for such a long amount of time that they were rendered hard as rock and completely devoid of taste.

Moving on. Mixed veggies. I love me some veggies, but I might as well have eaten the styrofoam tray. Like their fallen comrades, the zucchini, cauliflower, broccoli, red peppers, carrots, and snap peas MELODY had been steamed for so long that one could not spear them with the plastic utensil provided. MUSH.

For dessert I was given a banana that was brown and soft and reminded me of the one we found in a box in my grandmother's attic when we decided it was time to take her to the facility for those suffering from Alzheimer's. I couldn't even peel it back because it was so soft and rubbery. You know what I'm talking about, don't tell me you don't. It was NOT EDIBLE.

Chocolate milk. Sweet, sweet chocolate milk.

(No, the milk was fine, I swear.)

Here's my point: School lunches SUCK.

Perhaps this is not news to you, and I know my kids have told me many times that it is awful, but this was ridiculous as a first hand experience. For many of the kids in my class, this is THE BEST MEAL they will get all day.

And we wonder (in my building) why they are bringing in packages of Tastycakes and Combos with them to lunch.

BECAUSE THE FOOD WE OFFER THEM IS NOT FIT FOR CONSUMPTION.

Unless you want to get consumption. (Here all week, catch me ANYWHERE BUT THE CAFETERIA.)

Seriously. If you saw the amount of food that went into the trashcans at the end of the thirty minute lunchtime, you would clutch your tax dollars a little more tightly.

Sigh.

Next time I forget my lunch, I'm driving home to get it. Or starving.

Either one is better than this alternative.

Lush

2011-09-26T04:10:00.000-05:00

I have a situation where I am completely free every other weekend. No kids. No school. (Plenty of work, but none that is required.) No responsibilities.

So it comes up at work that people are going out for a happy hour on Friday. My FREED Friday. Emails are exchanged, a place is chosen, and everyone begins looking forward to the weekend.

A friend texts me on Thursday and asks if I'm going along. She knows I don't have my kids with me and thinks I should go. WANTS me to go. It would be fun. Good for me. A total blast.

She becomes obsessed with the idea, and, knowing that I am a non-drinker, begins a Google search for "drinks old ladies like." 'Cause she's 25 years old and I'm...a little bit older. She starts texting me the names of the drinks she imagines me sipping on the deck of a local establishment.

Incredible Hulk
Salty Dog
Pink Gin
Bay Breeze
Grog
Agent Orange
Skittle Bomb
Lemon Drop
Green Eyes
Polar Bear

She was having fun and I allowed her to entertain the idea that I would be getting drunk. I even posted comments on FB suggesting that this might be so.

Friday we all met up at a local bar. We ordered an obscene amount of appetizers. There were a few beers floating around the table. Ladies were getting their drank on. Gossip about school. Stories about students. Laughing about the ridiculous workshop that had eaten up half of our day.

Teacher Happy Hour.

She kept leaning toward me, whispering names of drinks and asking if I would try them.

Here's where you need to know that I have very little interest in drinking. Here's why: my brother hid liquor in his dresser and got kicked out of band for getting wasted at school events; my grandfather died penniless and unloved having been a drunk most of his adult life; and I saw first hand what alcohol did to people in college whether it be climbing out a window so you don't get caught or making out with someone you wouldn't normally be caught dead around.

To some this makes me a party pooper.

But I don't care if YOU drink. I just never had the desire.

And I will admit, I like being in control and drinking alcohol meant loss of control (to me).

Plus, come on you guys, beer smells like ass.

But, after a long conversation about what I like to drink (whole milk, Hawaiian Punch from a can, and ice water) she threw her hands up and said, "I'm ordering you a Smirnoff Ice. If you don't like it, Jenni will drink it."

It arrived, ice cold as advertised. I tipped it toward my glass and saw the tell-tale signs of carbonation. I don't do carbonation. Then I found out that it has a lemon-lime taste like Sprite. I don't do Sprite.

About seven agonizing minutes later, when they were about to chuck me over the wall and into the neighboring booth, I took a sip. My eyes involuntarily fluttered and I shivered head to toe, but I TOOK A SIP.

(Have you lost all respect for me by now?)

Over the course of the next hour, I drank about a third of the bottle. Hey. At least I was trying.

When I returned home, I posted a status - something about getting drunk.

Poor Tatum. Already having a terrible week, she immediately texted me - worried, angry, confused, curious...I assured her that I was being silly with my FB teacher friends, all of whom thought my adverse reaction to alcohol was humorous. I wasn't drunk. Not even buzzed.

Your mom is not a LUSH, honey. I promise.

I did have a taste of someone's Bay Breeze, though, and thought I might actually be able to drink that one.

Deep, man

2011-09-23T04:19:00.000-05:00

Does anyone out there do dream interpretation on the side? Dabble in the REM ramifications? Find meaning in the meaningless?

I've been remembering dreams lately, in vivid detail. I don't know what has changed (I just reread that and LOL you guys), but for some reason, when I wake up I can remember quite well who populated my sleep.

I KNOW why Dave Grohl is in just about every single dream I've been having lately. The man is oozing sex appeal. Sweet Jesus. Look at him.

Feel free to weigh in on last night's fanfare:

When I climbed into my car, I realized I had forgotten to lock it the night before and, because of that, a homeless man was sitting in the backseat of the Rabbit eating a burrito. I wasn't afraid of him, so I got in the car. It was on autopilot, and it took us across the river to Target. The homeless guy and I were greeted by Anya from Project Runway. She told us she was assigned to make something for us, but she walked directly to the food section recently added to all Targets, where she promptly chose hummus and grapes. Then the homeless guy's hands melted. He didn't seem to mind. At the register, Dave Grohl rung us up. He winked at me. The hummus and grapes cost $450.00 and the store started to look like Mood. Anya didn't have enough, so she had to put the grapes back. Dave felt kinda bad about that. We approached the front doors, which were supposed to slide open, but they didn't. Which was good because the parking lot had turned into an aquarium.

The end.

I think I'm losing my mind.

It finally pays off.

2011-09-20T04:18:00.000-05:00

This is my fifth year of teaching. I've taught 5th grade for all five of them.

(There are A LOT of fives in that paragraph.)

During the first few months of my first year, I lost a ton of weight (I dipped down under 100 pounds), I was depressed, I cried all of the time, and I asked multiple times if I could quit.

THEN MY CLASSROOM CAUGHT ON FIRE. (Who remembers that small piece of awesome?)

Lots of time has passed. About 1460 days, actually.

And lots of THINGS have changed, right?

Here's the thing - this summer I was faced with the fact that this school year would be unlike any previous year. For every other week I would find myself a mother (reluctantly) without kids, while the other seven days would find me a single mom trying to soak up every moment my children were willing to share with me.

When the kids aren't with me, I try to stay at school and finish work, catch up on grading, or work ahead. I plan, photocopy, make phone calls, and organize. (Of course, when they aren't with me, they walk home from school to my house, text me to tell me they are home, and I give up and go home early ANYWAY, but what I wrote above is my general PLAN.)

When my kids are with me, I can't stand to even run an errand if it's something I can do before they arrive on Sunday. I grocery shop on Saturday, I run my errands, I clean the house - before they get here. (Of course, someone always needs something, but I'm not saint and I usually need a half hour to myself, so it's all good.)

But here's the cool thing:

I used to come home from school on Friday and grade papers half the night. Then I would get up Saturday morning and write my lesson plans for several hours. Saturday afternoon I would organize my papers for the week. Sunday morning I would get up and head over to my classroom for a few hours.

NOT ANY MORE.

This year I work for two hours in my classroom either Sunday morning before my kids come home or Sunday evening after they've left.

No longer do I spend ALL WEEKEND working. It's such a wonderful, freeing, DESERVED feeling.

FREEDOM.

This past weekend I watched a movie Friday night AFTER I paged through a few magazines. I spent the afternoon on Saturday at the XC meet then I went home and walked the dog in the gorgeous fall weather. The evening found me at the high school football team, and later a bunch of kids came over (including mine) and hung out until midnight. Sunday I baked two dozen cookies, watched Project Runway with Tate, and read a book.

YOU GUYS, I READ A BOOK.

Was I a little stressed on Sunday? Sure, but that's because the copy room was locked when I arrived at school and it was starting to get dark and an empty school building at night is SCARY.

But I have reclaimed my weekends. And I feel damn good about it.

What do you want to do this Saturday?

Savoring the last moments

2011-09-19T04:07:00.000-05:00

Saturday was a beautiful fall day. The first one of the season, really. Sunny, blue skies with puffy white clouds, a cool breeze. Best experienced if you were wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweater.

I got into my car just before lunch time and headed over to a nearby school to watch the cross country meet - in my jeans, t-shirt, and sweater. (See what I did there?)

The course is either my absolute favorite or the bane of my existence. Over the four year run (pun intended) of Reed's XC career, it has been either the most gorgeous, easiest course on which to view the race or a muddy, soggy, terrible hell hole.

Luckily Saturday was perfect.

While XC is an individual sport, Reed is very open when it comes to describing the strategies that turn it into a more COMPLICATED version of an individual sport. One week he described how he was to lead a group of about ten runners to a 5:33 first mile, at which point everyone was then allowed to break off and run as fast as they could toward the finish line. This, of course, works for some runners - not so much for Reed.

But Reed isn't the fastest runner on the team, and as a senior (and a picky eater with low muscle mass) has probably reached his potential. BUT, he is very good at certain things, which is probably why he is team captain this year and the go-to guy when they need to have someone run a 5:33 first mile EXACTLY.

ANYWAY, varsity runners have the possibility of changing after every meet. Those who performed with scores in the top seven get to run varsity.

Reed had a terrible race on Tuesday of last week. There was a strategy, one Reed didn't particularly like, and the course was (apparently) not his favorite, and he finished "around" 9th on the team.

Sigh.

That meant he would run the JV race on Saturday. And while this could be upsetting, to me it's still a runner and a clock, so it doesn't diminish one's opportunities and possible achievements.

So, there I was, lined up to watch the start - looking for my son among the other 215ish runners. He doesn't choose to start strong. Not important to him.

Next stop - just down the hill and up a bit to see the boys come through. He was in the top fourth of the pack - somewhere among the first sixty or so runners. I saw his nemesis (a boy in ninth grade who had told Reed on Friday that he planned to crush him) as the lead runner for our team and I silently cursed him.

Next stop - a fast jog up the hill and across the field to catch the boys as they run through the woods. Reed was pulling up, but still behind the braggart, with maybe fifteen or twenty other boys from other schools ahead of him as well.

Next stop - just a few steps across the field to the long straight away where the boys emerge before they approach the finish line. I stood, nervously making small talk with another mom, waiting to see where Reed would be.

AND THERE HE WAS IN THIRD PLACE!

He emerged from the woods with only two boys ahead of him. I called his name loudly as he passed and he shot a glance my way. I wanted to see where his buddy was, but to see the finish you have to full-out run down the hill, and then another hill, all the while looking over your shoulder at the opposite side of the field to see if anything is changing in the standings.

I high-tailed it down the hill and there was my boy - still in third but coming up on the second place guy FAST AND FURIOUS (he'd appreciate the movie shout out).

Guys, I'm not even kidding - it was like a PHOTO FINISH type deal with Reed passing the other runner and coming in SECOND PLACE.

With a time of 18:33, Reed placed second in the JV race (and would have come in 58th place in the varsity race). This week, at the home meet on Tuesday, he will run varsity, as he is the 5th fastest runner on the team now.

I couldn't have been prouder. He smiled and even HUGGED me when I found him near the finish line. His shoe was removed and I was forced to look at one of the most disgusting blisters on the bottom of his foot while we talked about how he LEFT THAT 9TH GRADER IN THE DUST. (He finally crossed in 6th place).

I stuck around for the awards ceremony - hey, let's be honest, he's a senior and there aren't a whole bunch of those left. The guy who came in third went up for his medal holding a box of Cheez-its, which he tipped in Reed's direction as they shook hands. Reed grabbed a handful and stood, smiling, with his second place medal around his neck. (see in crappy iPhone picture below)

Yep. I had lesson plans that needed to be written (more on that later this week), laundry that needed to be washed, dried and folded, groceries that had to be purchased, and cookies that needed to be baked - but I gladly put it all on hold for this moment.

A moment with Reed. I love that kid.

Townies

2011-09-14T04:18:00.000-05:00

Between the rare moments of clarity and sheer brilliance, which are intermixed with long crying jags, I've come to realize that I love my house. Not the part that resides below ground - she and I will never see eye to eye, but the part above ground is pretty sweet.

Never able to borrow the car when I was young - there some secret language that I didn't understand that kept me from being able to extricate the keys from my mother's hands - I was stuck. Like STUCK. My parents basically lived in the middle of nowhere, and I attended a school that spanned (what felt like) hundreds of miles, with most of my friends living waaaaaaaaaaaaay over there. Once the bus deposited me at my house, regardless of whether it was a sunny Tuesday or a windy Friday, I was stuck. Couldn't go anywhere.

MY PARENTS' PHONE NUMBER WAS EVEN LONG DISTANCE for most of my friends. (Some of you don't understand what that means, but trust me, it wasn't good.)

Back when the kids were young, we lived in town...then we moved to the suburbs. When The Big D went down, I had little choice but to look at homes in town. Smaller, older, closer to neighbors homes.

Seventy year old homes with sketchy basements.

It's adorable, to be sure, what with the arched doorways and hardwood floors, but that's only part of the reason I love my house.

My KIDS love my house. (OK, NOT the one bathroom situation, but I'm trying to remain positive for once.)

(I'm just reposting these photos because I love my living room.)

Centrally located, my kids can come and go and go and go anywhere they like in town because everything is within walking distance. Food, shopping, parks, friends' houses. Walking. Distance.

I love that I am greeted at the end of the day by texts from my kids telling me, "I'm at the park with Daisy" or "I'm walking to Issei with Simon" or "Want to come home early and get milkshakes at Massey's"or "I'm walking to school for practice" or "Walked home with Kylie".

I'd like my kids to have more than I did. I NEVER got to do things like this. If I was lucky, I was allowed to have a sleep over once a month or borrow the car for an hour on a Saturday every few weeks.

Having a house in town is a start. They love the location.

(And I love having a marijuana dealer so close by...)

Let's get high

2011-09-13T04:14:00.000-05:00

On the lighter side (we need some levity around here, don't we?), last night I took Daisy on her nightly walk as I do every evening around 8:30pm.

Of course, it's pretty dark around these parts by that time. Didn't used to be, but autumn has a way of sneaking up on us, doesn't it? Two months ago we would leash up and LEAVE at 8:30pm, wandering around the high school campus until EASILY 9:15pm. Without fear of the dark. Not so much anymore. I try to scoot out of the house by 8:00pm, especially if my kids are with their father, yanno, to cut back on the potential for being grabbed off the street, tossed in the trunk of a car never to be seen again. (So much for levity, huh?)

We took off down the block, following Daisy's nose. Hey, I figure the walk is for her, so I might as well let her lead the way. She headed toward the high school, so off we went. She was happily sniffing her way along as I held a warm bag of poop. That's when we realized it was kind dark and there weren't many street lights guiding our way.

Hmmm.

I'm known for good choices, so imagine my surprise when I decided to cut down the little alley carved between two yards (to reach my house sooner), paved for the teenagers to use IN THE LIGHT OF DAY to get from my street to the high school, and I was offered (I think) drugs.

Look, I know it wasn't my brightest move, but it was getting late, I had five chapters to read to prepare for reading groups the next day, and WHO KNEW THERE WERE DRUG DEALERS HANGING AROUND SCHOOLS?!

Never mind that I was still wearing the flats I'd worn to school that day, you know, the ones with super good traction and no skid soles. Never mind that storms and flooding and torrential rains had knocked down numerous branches that littered the darkened alley. Never mind that there are no street lights along the way to ease your mind.

Yeah, even without the contraband, I almost killed myself by failing at basic WALKING skills.

ANYWAY. Walking through the sketchy alley, I saw a few (two or three, can't be sure) boys (young men, adults, elderly, can't be sure) leaning against a tree. Ever the fabulous watchdog, Daisy gave a few half-hearted barks and then became engrossed in the smell of some other dog's pee. That's when it happened.

I'm not EXACTLY sure what was said. I think voices were muffled by their hipster beanies or they were stoned and naturally couldn't enunciate or I was nervous and have old lady ears.

I'm PRETTY sure there was some mention of drugs. And there was DEFINITELY laughter, PROBABLY at my expense.

Also? There MIGHT have been a complete misunderstanding.

All I'm saying is that those guys in the alley by my house? I don't think they want to be my new boyfriend.

But I bet they have some sweeeeet weed.

Get to know me!

2011-09-12T04:13:00.000-05:00

I speak for teachers everywhere (or at least the ones in my classroom) when I say that, "We'd love to get to know you!"

Come to Back to School Night. Email us with your concerns. Stop by to meet the teacher. Show us that you are invested so that we can build a relationship, present a united front, and make a difference in your kid's life. If you demonstrate that school is a priority, your student will be a more successful student.

Of course, it is not often that this happens in my career. I can always count on one helicopter mom. She emails me at least bi-weekly. She is too involved with her child's social life. She's sure he's being bullied. She wonders if he is behind in reading or math. She memorizes the spelling lists, recalculates my percentages on tests, and packs a perfectly balanced lunch in tiny little plastic containers. She also buys dry erase markers, tissues, snacks, and Target gift cards for holidays...so there's THAT.

Then there are the absent parents. Ones who clearly have three versions of the latest smart phone but never show up for conferences, don't even know the date of Back to School Night, and can't provide a square meal much less help with math homework.

Then there's the ones in the middle. The ones who sit quietly at Back to School Night and listen to what you say, jotting down your website address. The ones who sign all of the tests the require signatures. The ones who volunteer to help organize parties during the holidays. The ones who show up at conference time, not just to listen, but to constructively figure out what else WE could be doing.

But not enough parents fit into that category - the middle - the ones standing on the sidelines, rooting for their kid alongside ME. But that's what I want. If your kid has a bad day, I want to know if something happened at home. If your kid does something amazing in class, I want to share it with you.

However, if you won't talk to me, this will never happen.

I'm speaking as both a teacher and a parent. I mean, I fit both roles.

And people assume that if you are a teacher, you must know EVERY teacher in the school district. Not true my friend. Not true. So, as a mom, I have to make an effort to get to know the people with whom my kids spend as much time as they do with me.

I'm choosy. I listen during the first two weeks of school, trying to pick up on who they like, who they think is fair, who they feel is disrespectful. Then I go to Back to School Nights. I take what my kids said and factor in my own perceptions, and then I reach out to at least one of them. Just touch base. Ask how my kid is doing, ask if there is anything I should be aware of. Establish a line of communication.

It may be just that one email, but I know, as a teacher, that they will remember me. They will know I am watching, I care, and I want to be a partner in my child's success.

And then, if I need to let them know anything, say, oh I don't know - CHANGES AT HOME - I've already got an in.

It's just the beginning of the year, but luckily I've got a pre-established in with a few teachers my kids have. (It's nice once they hit middle and high school and there are repeat teachers for your kids.)

Things have been getting REAL around here, and I wanted to check on my kids because I am worried about them.

I had a great exchange with one of Griffin's teachers.

And you worry about your kids, you wonder how they are feeling, you feel cut off from what they are thinking...and, well, they just don't tell you. TEENAGERS.

Teenagers, right?

But, by establishing a relationship with this teacher, by showing interest in both the school aspect and the welfare of my kid, I became privy to a bunch of information that both broke my heart and gave me hope.

Plus I got this: "I know he is very protective of you. He was really worried about the rain these past few days because he said it floods and he wasn't there to help you...He's a really sweet kid with a good heart."

There was much more, but this was a good little insight. An insight that helped me to feel a little better.

Sooo...take the time to get to know at least one of your kids' teachers (me). Trust them (me). Talk to them (me). It's well worth it. We (I) care as much as you do.

Chicken Denim

2011-09-08T04:34:00.000-05:00

Last night, over dinner of fried catfish, scalloped potatoes, Red Lobster biscuits, and chocolate chip cookies (yeah, I did that), Reed brought up his homework: to fill in information to accompany his senior picture in the yearbook.

This, of course, was AFTER the three of them spontaneously broke into what can only best be described as a hoe down with Reed drumming on the table, Tatum clapping, and Griffin doing this annoying snapping thing with his fingers.

But I digress.

He was only moderately interested in participating in this ritual. For senior superlatives, his friend Devin asked him to vote for him for "Most Artistic" but other than that, he thought he would "mess with whoever read these things." You know, where is asks for "Best Shoulder to Cry On" he wants to write, "I never cry."

That sort of thing.

But for his senior quote, my son decided to choose from a plethora of quotes as spoken by Charlie. You know, from It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

This kid never ceases to amaze me.

See, the thing is, he's not exactly FRIENDLY. (It's a spectrum thing. See: Sheldon) But for some reason, his dislike of people, disinterest in talking to people, lack of involvement in ANYTHING social hasn't worked against him. In fact, most people like him because it comes off as mysterious. (I'll wait while you LOL.)

Anyway, he spent a good bit of the chocolate chip cookie course reading quotes to us from the list he called up on his phone.

I give you the official description of Charlie Day (Reed's fave character): He's functionally illiterate, he's childish and naive, and he may be a serious sexual deviant.

Quotes mentioned include:

Taked baby. Meet at later bar, night or day sometime.
Well what's going on is you just drank a cup of poison!
That's 'cause I cut the brake line. Wild card bitches!
Yeah, like in The Sixth Sense you find out that the dude in that hair piece the whole time? That's Bruce Willis the whole movie!
Dude, I think I was a centaur in my past life.

Anyway, he went with: Never sneak up on someone who has been in a chemical fire.

I love how he still surprises me. That kid.

Now let's see if the powers that be print it below his awkward photo.

Lawns and black clouds and unicorns

2011-09-06T01:40:00.000-05:00

(She made this face in every stinking photo.

No matter how many times I tried to get her to take it seriously.

Then I realized it was perfect.)

Here's a shocking piece of news: THE LAWN NEEDS MOWED EVERY WEEKEND.

At least it was shocking to my children when they found out on Sunday.

Even more shocking? I expected ONE OF THEM to mow it. I'm surprised they didn't call the cops to report that blatant abuse of motherly power, the forced child labor, this HORRIBLE affront to mankind.

In case you're wondering, we didn't have to best first-weekend-after-school-started over here at Casa Mom. There was shouting, door slamming, crying, swearing, threatening, and throwing.

And my kids were upset, too. (Here all week...)

I don't know. I guess the details are not particularly important to the story, so I'll give you the basic scenario: the grass was getting high, the forecast for the week was rain EVERY day, and I texted JC to bring over the mower. (Yeah, I don't have my own mower yet, which kinda pisses me off because I hate having to ask to borrow one.) The boys had plans of their own, one had already showered and one was going to learn to play the bass (?), and Tatum was at the tail end of a sleepover.

After said OVEReaction by yours truly, in which I told them they would "never EVER mow the lawn for me again" I left to pick up my daughter, resigned to mowing when I returned.

I am, if nothing else, a girl.

When Tatum got into the car, needing to vent (everything was still too close), I told her the story. And do you know what my daughter - my lazy, hates to be outside, didn't feel well daughter - said, "Mom, I'll mow. And I'm not even saying that because I think you want me to. I'm saying it because I want to do it. I don't know WHY I want to do it, but I do. Don't even say anything because I'll do it when we get home. Before I shower."

Of course, you know what happened. When we pulled into the driveway, Griffin, headphones in ears, was mowing the back 40 (which is really like the back 3 1/2, but whatever). Still pissed off, I approached him, held my hand up in the "stop" position, and told him to turn the mower off because Tatum was going to do it.

He tried to hide the shocked expression that came naturally to his face (I told you she was not exactly the kind of person to jump at the chance to lawn work), but he pulled the buds from his ears, let go of the handle, and tromped off into the house.

He left shortly afterwards, for a week at his dad's house. We didn't settle things. Black cloud and all.

I hated that.

As if it's not bad enough that I don't get to live with them all of the time, to end the weekend with a loud, angry rant? Not what I want. I want sunshine and rainbows and unicorns.

If nothing else, out of this new normal, my goal is not to hurt the kids any more than they have been hurt by the divorce. Doesn't matter how old your kids are, divorce sucks. And it has sucked for my kids, that's for sure. (They make sure to tell me on a weekly basis, I'm special like that.)

Anyway, Griffin came by on Monday. He apologized. I apologized. He explained why he flipped out (not related to me or the lawn, by the way) and all was good.

And I realized that even in a new normal, I get to blow my top when my kids act ridiculous. That's the old normal. And old normal still fits in some cases. Like the lawn.

Oh. And guess who's mowing the lawn next Saturday?

What we have here is a failure to communicate

2011-09-02T01:03:00.000-05:00

OK, so EVERYTHING can't be roses and wine (neither of which I prefer, actually, so if you want to woo me, that ain't gonna do it).

Anyway, you know. I've been loving on my class this week. They are sweet and friendly and mostly decent human beings.

But, as with all things, the honeymoon must come to an end. Ours did on Thursday - promptly at 9:05am when I found out that I had been given the wrong schedule so the music teacher who we had been waiting for never showed up and the gym teacher was waiting for us and half of my girls weren't dressed for gym because I told them we had music which is what my schedule said so they were all mad at me and I had consequently lost almost all of my planning time which I was going to use to get ready for reading because I wasn't prepared and then I went to the office and I was accused of somehow getting the wrong schedule myself because apparently I appear to be the kid of girl who is interested in self-sabotage and then...

...well, it kept going downhill.

Never fear, my intrepid friends. We start school the last week of August so that if we survive the first full week, we are rewarded with a holiday, which means no school on Monday.

But, I still have to make it through today.

And, yeah, so, we might as well talk about Dammit.

She isn't trying. She spends her time drawing on her white board and playing with the bag of markers she brought from home. During reading yesterday she managed to sneak out of the room five times before I caught her. On Google Translate I typed a very stern, verging on not nice reprimand in mostly capital letters so that she would GET MY POINT.

It looked like this:

Sen önce bana sormadan odayı terk OLMAYABİLİR.Ve okuma sırasında beş kez tuvalete gitmek OLMAYABİLİR.Bunu yapmak için gerek yoktur. Ve benhenüz İngilizce bilmiyorum anlamalarına karşın, SİZE herkes ne yaptığınıyapmaya çalışacağız.Anlıyor musunuz?

Yeah it did.

Later I felt slightly SLIGHTLY guilty when she tried to communicate with me via index card (?) and I got this:

In case you can't read it, it says: "Msr. Mann, Computer I write you? Gogle whirlwind and whirlpool."

And let's not even talk about the student with a name that rhymes with bleaven, who sits with HER HAND RAISED ALL OF THE TIME AND CAN COME UP WITH A QUESTION NO MATTER HOW LONG I WAIT TO CALL ON HER PUT IT DOWN!

Dear god. Is it Friday yet?

The importance of prepositions

2011-09-01T04:05:00.005-05:00

Today was our first gym class, my kiddos and I. This is a momentous occasion because I am legendary for (if nothing else) being THE TEACHER WHO DOES GYM CLASS.

It's not something I do to get attention (but let's be honest, I'm a teacher, so it's clear that I DO like attention), it's something I do because I like it. And, if I'm trying to build a community, why not do something that's fun WITH my class in addition to all that learning we're doing back in the room? The gym teacher is a cool guy who welcomes me, he plays music while we MOVE, and the kids love that I do it. It's my 45 minute planning period twice a cycle, but I give that up for how it makes us feel.

WIN - WIN.

Usually.

Today, being the first class, was a "get to know you" type session. So, our teacher had planned a bunch of activities meant to build a community. The main game involved a slip of paper with 10 types of exercise listed on it. Every person got one slip, a pen, and instructions: Go around to 10 different people in the gymnasium, ask each one to do one of the exercises, and then get them to sign off on your slip of paper. Easy enough, and fun, too!

One of my kids impressed me with four cartwheels in a row (only two were required and I've never been able to do one) and signed my slip, then another of my girls and I attempted to juggle scarves and we signed each other's slips, then I asked one of my boys to do the required five sit ups.

me: "Nice. Now you have to sign my slip."
him: " OK."
me: "Here, I'll lean down. You can sign it on my back."
him: "OK?"

When he was finished, he handed me my slip and my pen and I was left with this:

Yes. This is my teacher shirt. WHICH HE SIGNED WITH A PEN AT 8:45AM. WITH A PEN!

Apparently when I said, "sign on my back," the music was a tad on the loud side and he heard "sign my back." Which he did. WITH A PEN.

Of course, I was shocked for about three seconds, then I remembered - who the hell cares? It's a freaking shirt, AND THIS IS HILARIOUS! His face turned bright red and he took off to the other side of the gym. Meanwhile I was in hysterics showing every student in my class what he had done. Then I showed the secretary, then the principal. Oh, and the gym teacher. And pretty much EVERY student and teacher who would listen.

'Cause if you're going to accidentally write on a teacher's shirt, it might as well be mine.

It's gonna be a GREAT year. These kids have me hook, line, and signed shirt.

Exhaustion

2011-08-31T04:17:00.001-05:00

There is no blog today. DEAL WITH IT.

Instead I leave you with the obligatory first day of school photo, Mann family style. Feel free to leave your comments.

I am from...

2011-08-30T04:12:00.009-05:00

On the first day of school, Griffin came home and wrote a poem. He was none too happy about having homework on the first day, but come on, you're in high school now. You have work to do.

To his credit, he sat and wrote, realizing he still had to eat dinner, pack his lunch, and go to Wingin' It. My kid PLANNED AHEAD. (In other news, hell is...never mind.)

Ready to print his final copy, he came stomping into my bedroom where I was laying on my bed recuperating FROM TEACHING ALL DAY.

him: "Mom. MOM."

I open my eyes and peek up at him. He's carrying the computer.

me: "What? WHAT?"
him: "I can't print. Like ANYTHING."
me: "OK..."

Seems that my printer isn't hooked up right so that when Griffin and Tatum try to print anything they need an administrator BLEEP BLORP BLEEP BLORP. (Do I look like a nerd?)

me: "Email it to me and I'll print it."
him: "No. I'll write it by hand."
me: "That's dumb."
him: "Thanks. MOM."
me: "Just email it to me."
him: "But I don't want you to read it." (pause) "OK, you can." (pause) "No don't."
me: "Bipolar much?"
him: "I don't want you getting all critical on me."
me: "That's not fair. I edited your stuff last night and pointed out grammatical errors. It was good writing and I told you that."
him: "OK. Read it. But don't look at me." (pause) "Delete it."

ANYWAY.

He'd KILL me if he knew I shared this with you, BUT since he doesn't read my blog, he'll never know.

I just thought it was pretty awesome. (Remember when he was just "middle son"?)

Griffin M

Mr. F

August 29 2011

"I am from poem"

I am from confidence.

I am from skinny legs

cuts and bruises

and "the dent"

I am from loving myself.

(sometimes too much)

I am from halloween costumes

made by mom

and worn at all times of the year.

I am from the stage

basking in the attention

loving every moment

I am from jokes and laughter

at any chance I can get.

I am from two houses

adjusting to find new a normal

and reaching it

with no love lost.

I am from birthday balloons on Christmas

from sharing the day with everyone

and doubling up the fun.

I am from waking up every morning

from being excited for the day

to see what it holds.

And so it goes.

2011-08-29T04:25:00.011-05:00

I intended to write a long dissertation about my summer. How it was too short. How it started with the Big D and ended with a basement that no longer flooded. How it didn't feel like a summer at all.

But then my (biological) kids returned to my house, a few hours earlier than expected, and I gave myself over to them as I tend to do. We cooked, packed lunches, put out fires, proofread summer reading essays, picked first day outfits, soothed frayed nerves, and watched Formula 1 and the VMAs.

All of that was better than writing a blog post. ALL OF THAT.

So, yeah, I feel like I got cheated out of my summer. I spent most of it moving and painting and comforting and crying. (I just want it on the record that - with help - I painted seven rooms this summer - SEVEN!)

Summers off my ass.

I'm not ready for school to begin at all.

I mean, I went in to my classroom a lot over the past two weeks, did the two days of inservice last week. I wrote names on tags, piled supplies on desks, brushed up my website...but I didn't really think about STARTING school. Like teaching and talking and reviewing and loving my class.

But that's where we are.

Did it go fast for you, too?

This year I have a grand total of 25 - make that 26 (thanks for remembering to register your kid LAST MINUTE) - kids: 13 boys and 13 girls. Besides the late comer on Friday and the girl from Turkey, all of my kids were at my school last year. So, they sorta know what's up. But, I still have to go through all of the procedures and routines in my classroom. Tell my minions that I expect them to return the respect that I will give to them. I have to be careful with the funny so as not to give it all up on the first day. Draw that fine line between friend and teacher. INSPIRE and MOLD.

I'm not ready at all. I've looked over lesson plans, reviewed my "speeches" in my head, packed my lunch. And so I must go.

Wish me luck. I'm sure I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

A bit about motivation

2011-08-26T04:09:00.066-05:00

Yesterday was KICKOFF at school.

That sounds WAY more interesting and exciting than reality (also the name of one of our 5th grade students this year!). Reality (there it is again, Dammit --- see what I did there?) is more like this:

boring speech
terrible elementary school band performance
boring speech, ragging on the governor for budget cuts (and basically hating on public education)
recognizing teachers who've been teaching forEVER
more terrible speaking
a speaker the district has paid TO PUMP US UP.

This, my friends, pissed the audience off more than you can realize. See, we've given up half of our annual percentage raise to help meet budget cuts, we are no longer afforded such frivolous notions as NOTEBOOKS AND PENCILS, we can't attend any workshops and expect to be reimbursed, and we continue to be among the most hated people in the country.

BUT WE CAN HIRE A SPEAKER TO MOTIVATE US.

Which, I supposed, would be fine IF HE WAS ACTUALLY MOTIVATING. This nerd was so full of himself that his cup runneth over. Waaaaaaay over. He fancied himself a comedian as well as a teacher/speaker and he did just about anything for a laugh. Mostly he told stories we've ALL read on the internet and tried to pass them off as personal experience. He talked about how students have great bullshit detectors...but he failed to realize that the only part of the population who has better bullshit detectors are TEACHERS.

So, it was hard to pay attention to his two hour speech, meant to motivate remember, that went nowhere and seemed to be held together with duct tape and quotes he pulled from a site like this. He liked to tell morality tales, too, and pass them off as clever anecdotes he's learned while teaching. And let's not get into the inconsistencies in his stories.

All of which made him LESS THAN motivating.

Yeah, it kinda got my goat. I mean, if I am going to be forced to walk to the high school in a torrential, pre-Irene rainstorm, sit in a crowded, freezing cold auditorium for three and a half hours, give up money I could have better used for my students, my KIDS --- yeah, I want to be AMAZED.

So, while this could have gotten me down, I decided to motivate myself.

See the above? Our MOTIVATIONAL speaker referenced it today in his speech that made no sense.

But I'd had an instant flashback to a class I took about poverty when pursuing my certification - which hits close to home for the kids in my class (the kids in my SCHOOL). I remembered seeing Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and feeling this amazing sense of relief, of wonder, of understanding.

YES! Yes, this is why our kids don't score well on the PSSAs.

Sure, I can (and try) to do better each year. Hell, if I wasn't trying to get better, what would be the point of it all? And yeah, the kids could take it more seriously. Of course, they are ten years old after all, so what sort of miracles are we asking for? And naturally, parents could DO SOMETHING that resembles parenting. Seriously people: PARENT YOUR KIDS.

However, as seen in Maslow's nifty little pyramid up there, if you don't have enough to eat, a house to live it, a warm place to sleep...you can't even move to the next level, which IS ONLY SAFETY.

Notice that achievement and responsibility are near the top. WHICH MEANS MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO GET THERE. Not in 181 days. (Or 127 days if we're going by the actual date of the test.) There's no way.

It's unrealistic to think that my kids, those ridiculous, infuriating, irresponsible KIDS THAT I LOVE are ever going to score proficient on a test created by WELL EDUCATED ADULTS who have a home, enough to eat, understand and feel safe, experience love and belonging unconditionally, if they are concerned that their mom is selling drugs (big drug busts in town this summer), or if they are worried that they won't have any dinner that night (more often a concern than I once realized).

I'm sorry, but it's true PENNSYLVANIA GOVERNOR TOM CORBETT.

So, how do I motivate myself?

I remember my own mantra, which I have posted on my classroom door, said by the wonderful Charles Schultz:

I am motivated to do my best this year, to fall in love ALL OVER AGAIN because:

I will be a constant, steady source of love, expectation, and respect in their lives
I will provide them with food (I love to cook!)
I will fill our classroom with laughter
I will make learning relative (learn math so we can figure out how much 35% off is!!)
I will model respect and expect it in return
I will not give up
I will not give up
I will not give up
I will not give up
I will not let test scores define who I am as a teacher or who they are as people.

Let's get this school year rolling. Consider me MOTIVATED.

You can't make this shit up.

2011-08-24T04:16:00.031-05:00

Last night was NEW STUDENT ORIENTATION at school.

Sigh.

In previous years, our gymnasium/cafeteria/multipurpose room would be filled. Rows and rows of chairs arranged in the afternoon by the custodian to be filled in the early evening by scores of families: anxious kids and beleaguered parents, all ready for the new school year. Tonight there would be dozens and dozens of them.

And I've never started a school year where I didn't have at least five BRAND NEW TO THE SCHOOL students. A mix, usually, of kids who just moved to the area, the offspring of people attending the War College, and students from far away lands whose fathers are students of the War College.

Sadly, this year, I have but one new student. She is from Turkey.

I'm not sad because she's from Turkey (and speaks no English), I'm sad because our test scores have created a situation where visiting parents choose NOT to attend our wonderful, loving, diverse school.

BECAUSE EVERYONE SHOULD BE JUDGED BY A TEST.

But I digress.

So, I gussied myself up, got my hair did, put on a nice pair of pants and a t-shirt, and because that wasn't dressy enough, I added a scarf. Then I drove over to school for the BIG SHOW.

After introductions in front of the pathetically small group of newcomers, teachers were dismissed to "work in the room" (that's code for stand in the hallways and bitch about SOMETHING) until parents and students were sent off to meet us.

About forty minutes later, I was joined by a family of four. The father was pleasant, knew about as much English as I thought he would, which is to say he knew a hell of a lot more English then I know Turkish.

ANYWAY, we had a conversation that went a little something like this:

me: "Welcome!"
him: "Hello." (little bow) "We are glad to be coming here."
me: "Thanks. Is this your daughter, Esin?"
him: "No. Her name (garbled)."
me: "Oh. Ummm, perhaps you have the wrong room. I only have one new student and her name is Esin."

(across the room, the girl notices her name tag on a desk and gets her father's attention)

him: "Ah, I am seeing. Her name Esin, but we go by her other name."

(he looks like around the room for a piece of paper)

him: (writing) "It is like this." (he show me her first name, then her middle name, then her last name) "We call her by this name." (he points to the middle name)
me: "Oh. OK. I understand. Can you pronounce it for me?"

At this point, he pronounces her middle name once, then a second time, and then I ask him to write it down again, and then he pronounces it one last time.

YOU GUYS. I teach a bunch of ten year old who can barely keep their hormones in check, who bust out laughing if you say the word nut, who practically freak out when I say crap.

Her middle name? If said correctly, is DAMMIT.

As in, "Did you turn in your homework, Dammit?"
Or, "Push your chair in, Dammit."
And, "Dammit, I thought I asked you to close the door."

What am I supposed to do with this one, dammit?

The principal and two fellow teachers were IN STITCHES when I explained my predicament. No sorrow or empathy, no words of wisdom, no suggestions. JUST LAUGHTER. At my predicament.

It is kind of funny, though.

Dammit.

(A side note: While this was definitely hilarious, a funny, funny experience, it was also very sad for me. This is the type of thing that I would rush home to share with JC. I'd tell the story, building to the climax, he'd be waiting, knowing it would be worth it, and we'd laugh and laugh, making our own jokes about what had happened. I compensated, telling a few friends, Griffin - you guys - but it wasn't the same. I can't explain why it wasn't the same, but it wasn't. So, even though I appear to be OK, blogging and making light and swearing, I just wanted to remind you that I am recently divorced, and it hurts. A lot. It's weird to have so many people who love and care about you but to still feel so lonely.)

Too bad Billy Mays kicked the bucket

2011-08-23T04:02:00.002-05:00

Remember the post about living in my house forever? (Yeah, it was YESTERDAY PEOPLE - look alive.)

The one in which I admitted that I am complicated and probably unable to actually PROMOTE myself to potential suitors (should the need ever arise) - stay with me - it's like the Lion King all up in here, circle of FREAKIN' life and whatnot.

Yeah. That one.

This brings us back to MY BOOK. (See what I did there?)

How can a girl with low to rising self esteem be expected to promote her own book? It makes me feel like a hooker. (That's a line from my book, FAMILY FOTO, NOW AVAILABLE on CreateSpace and Amazon for the bargain basement price of $13.99!)

Here's the thing - I love my book. I mean, of course I do. And, after a long time, I actually allowed others (outside my head) read it. And, they SEEMED to like it. I mean, they could just be saying they liked it, but some of them appeared to be sincere.

There is the danger of someone liking the book purely because they know the author and not actually thinking about the content of the novel. But these people, well...they comment on plot and the twist and the characters - like THEY ACTUALLY READ IT.

When the first copy of my book arrived at my house in a plain brown wrapper, a copy for me to proofread prior to giving my approval for others to be able to order it, I was flabbergasted. Amazed. Stunned.

Proud.

But I was also slightly embarrassed.

I know that doesn't make any sense to you but I felt silly. Fake. Weird.

And then my best friend grabs the book and starts waving it around in front of everyone's face and while I secretly loved it, outwardly I was embarrassed.

Remember - low self-esteem. I SUCK at taking compliments (I can turn any positive thing you say to me into a negative - try me), and I have real trouble thinking anything positive about myself.

But, if I want to do more than hawk copies of my CD from the back of my car, I'm going to have to find ways to promote myself. My book. My authorship.

I have to say, "My book is good! Did you buy it yet?!"

I have friends who I KNOW host or participate in book clubs. I, in my most self-deprecating manner, say, "You should read my book for your next book club." They chuckle, I chuckle, we chuckle, and...conversation moves on.

But what I really mean is, "YOU SHOULD READ MY BOOK FOR YOUR NEXT BOOK CLUB."

Now I just have to go from thinking it, to writing about it on my blog, to saying it out loud.

So, for now, I'll go with this: If you bought my book and you read it, PLEASE take a minute to go over to Amazon and write a review of it. Books with reviews are 78% more likely to be purchased.*

AND, for the purposes of promotion - if you bought my book (YOU DID BUY MY BOOK, DIDN'T YOU?), take a photo of you and the book and then email it to me. You can be lounging by the pool (no splashing), reading it while driving (you just CAN'T put it down), or sitting with your book club (why didn't you invite me?). Take a photo of you and the book at the top of the Empire State Building, on the back of a pick up truck, in the bathtub. You reading Family Foto while dressed as Harry Potter, while baking zucchini muffins, while shaving your cat.

The possibilities are endless.

So - DO IT! Be SUPER creative. I'll use them as promotional material.

Snap away and send to sherry dot mann at gmail dot com.** Thanks!

*I totes made that statistic up.
**By emailing me a photo, you give up all rights to said photo and give me permission to use the photo for purposes of promotion.

She at the church. She getting married to oily bohunk.

2011-08-22T04:02:00.003-05:00

Tatum: "Mom? Will you live in this house forever?"

There's a question I am incapable of answering. Not because I'm being difficult. Not because I can't bear to tell her the truth. But BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA.

I mean, how do I even begin to answer that?

While I can't actually imagine getting MARRIED again (I know, EVERYONE who gets divorced starts out saying that and ends up in a rebound marriage three months later selling the house and the van and breaking the news to the kids as you hike up your stockings and grab a vaseful of flowers for the ceremony - but I've done the marriage thing and I can't picture myself doing it again), there is a chance that some fool will enjoy my company and I might shack up with him (like, fifteen years from now).

However, I can't even imagine being in a relationship with someone else. (Writing that makes me shudder - how does one "be in a relationship" with someone? I am completely retarded.)

The other day, pretty much as a joke, I had a conversation with a similarly situated friend about those ubiquitous dating websites. (More shudder.) We teased one another about signing up, about the losers we'd probably get matched with, the pool of people who might be available to us, the type of people who use those sites.

And to think: I could be one of THOSE PEOPLE. (I'm not, but I could be.)

This, of course, leads to the idea that I might have to sell myself (hooker jokes appreciated) to another human being. I'm not some nineteen year old single gal flitting about campus, turning the heads of all of the (two or three) boys. I'm a divorced mother with three teenagers who teaches fifth graders full time, has a dog and two cats, and a house that wants to fall apart, and idiosyncrasies to spare. (Plus, I might be addicted to FB.) At best, I'm COMPLICATED.

PICK ME! DATE ME!

I can just imagine filling in one of those ridiculous forms on a dating website. I'll use my skills as a stellar (published) author to assure that I attract the smartest, fittest, most desirable male species in the quickest amount of time.

And it goes a little something like this:

Tell us a bit about yourself:

I am sorta attractive if you squint and tilt your head to the side and don't look at my profile from the right side.
I am kinda funny if there aren't a lot of other people around and you favor sarcasm.
I am a decent cook.
I am skinny if you like that sort of thing.
I keep a neat ~~inn~~ house.

Let's face it, I suffer from low self-esteem. I couldn't sell myself to a crack addicted meth head if I came preloaded with a few rocks and a pipe.

It stems back to my childhood (doesn't EVERYTHING), and from there, a short detour toward unconditional love (yes, I moonlight as Dr. Freud). But really, if you don't receive unconditional love from your mother (I did not - EVERYTHING was conditional), it screws you up. Really. I'm not kidding, you guys. If your mother doesn't love you, what does that say about you as a person.

For me, it manifested itself as me waiting for the people I loved (or cared about) to leave me because of something I did. Like dump me. Ditch me. Realize I wasn't worth the trouble or effort and move on without me.

When I was very young (I'm talking high school, college years, which, sadly, at this point, feels like when I was very young), I would intentionally mess up as a "test," and sadly, being immature and unaware that I was even doing it (thanks to my counselor, I am now aware of it and avoid it like the plague), most people failed the test and left me.

How cool am I? I DID THAT. I pushed people away ON PURPOSE because of my messed up relationship with my mom.

Now, as an adult, I am much savvier than I once was. I understand that my mother withholding unconditional love from me didn't say anything about ME, but shouted volumes about HER. And I don't push people away on purpose. I let them in, love and care about them, accept it when they get angry, and relish in it when they love me back. I've MATURED. (Thank you.)

So, will I live in this house FOREVER? (Remember, THAT'S how this all started.)

I have no idea. I mean, EVERBODY want to date me, so there's that.

Flat as a board

2011-08-19T04:05:00.000-05:00

I don't really want to blog today (I need a day off), but I did want to share this wisdom that I accidentally read today on a blog I'm considering following:

I'm in no rush. I'll meet that guy when I meet him. Well, Hopefully. Most of the guys I'm dealing with right now are your "HAHA, BOOBIES." type of guys. You know what I mean.

She's a teenager...but I think she speaks for the ages.

I love my daughter and other ridiculously obvious things.

2011-08-18T04:09:00.020-05:00

Tatum took this photo of me.

I want to write a book where this could be the cover image.

Yesterday there was a massive hub-bub with banners and free frozen yogurt and an author signing at a table that was covered with balloons - all surrounding the release of my book.

OK, not really a massive hub-bub. There was no frozen yogurt. And I only signed a check when I dropped stuff off at the dump. Zip on the balloons. Maybe a minor hub-bub with a bit of a squeak.

Maybe just a squeak.

I attempted to keep it all a bit of a secret - not because I wanted to hurt feelings (although THERE'S A BLOG POST FOR ANOTHER DAY) or shock anyone - but because I thought with a bigger bang, a little surprised, I might just stir up a little more interest. Yanno, cause while I don't think this will make me rich, a girl can dream that the right person might see it, pick it up and read it, and SOMETHING will happen. (I have the cast of the movie already picked out.)

Like my good friend Patrick said: These be the selling my book out the back a my trunk years.

But I'm not against cross pollination. If you have a blog or a Twitter account, if you are in a book club or teach a bunch of high school kids YOU CAN FEEL FREE TO POINT THEM IN THE GENERAL DIRECTION OF MY BOOK. I mean, if you don't mind.

And while I was hopeful that this would happen, the fact that it did, and that it came from my daughter, was the most pleasant surprise.

While the book is geared more for the YA audience (those tipping the scale at the upper end of the teen years) and the adult market, Tatum wanted to read it this summer, so I let her. I figured she'd blush privately at the talk of teens and sex and laugh at the swearing because her mother has the mouth of a sailor, and maybe, just MAYBE, she'd like it.

She did. Well, at least she said she did. Her father encouraged her to TALK to me about it, but she wasn't comfortable going into any detail, no book club type discussions occurred, so I just assumed it was a novelty to her - her mom wrote a book - and she was strangely proud if mostly unsure what to do with that.

Until I got her email yesterday.

My daughter has a blog (RIGHT?!) that I am not privy to. I get it - she's thirteen and sometimes SHE HATES ME, which I'm pretty sure she blogs about. It's whatever. I'd like to see it, I know where it's hosted, and I know the names of her favorite songs, so I'm pretty sure if I dusted off my Nancy Drew skills, I could find her, but I'm choosing to trust that she's blogging safely. The blog is mostly for budding photographers to post pictures of the sky, the flowers, and blurry photos of their friends. My girl, though, she's a pretty good photographer, so I bet the other girls are jealous. (stick tongue out here)

ANYWAY, she sent me an email (too embarrassed to just tell me) that said, "Mom. I wrote about your book on my blog. I don't know if anyone will buy your book because of it, but I did." I think - THINK - she might have written, "love Tatum" but let's not get all sentimental.

Then she sent another email and this is what she wrote for her blog followers to read:

This is a post for all my followers that like to read. so if you are not in that category, you can skip this post, or you can keep on readin' cause i happen to have some pretty cool news for you.

My mommy is a teacher, but she also likes writing actual books in her spare time. WELL. A few years ago my mom wrote a book. This summer, she decided to publish it. It's called Family Foto. Here's the little blurb on the back of the book:

The identity of seventeen-year-old Lucy Stafford's father is a mystery. And she isn’t supposed to ask. Her mother has spent Lucy's entire life ducking the topic, while her stepfather answers every question with a hearty, "Have you filled out those college applications yet?" A summer job in a local shop that still develops film fills her time, but when she sees a photo of a man who looks remarkably like her, it also fills her head with ideas. Dusting off Nancy Drew-style detective skills she hasn't used since she was ten years old, Lucy sets out to uncover the mystery of her maybe-father. In the process, she becomes a maybe-stalker with a penchant for ending up in the back of a local police car. Through her misadventures, Lucy uncovers evidence that will force her to confront her mother, her ideas about what defines a father, and the cute French boy with a secret of his own.
It's mainly for a teenage audience, AKA us. It's a really awesome book. Not to float my mom's boat or anything, i know it's stupid that im advertising this, but you never know who would be interested. I read it in a few days.

OH!

And i didn't even tell you guys the best part yet.

GUESS WHO PHOTOGRAPHED THE COVER ART?

Yep. Yours truly. (and my dad, he helped too.)

SO! If you are a reader, if you don't have anything to read right now, if you aren't a reader and this just sounds freakin' amazing, or if you just love me, check out my mom's book! It's totes worth it, guys. TOTES WORTH IT.

She said it was totes worth it. My daughter said my book was TOTES WORTH IT. (And she kinda writes like her mom, yes?)

What? Did you get a better recommendation for a book yesterday? I didn't think so.

Now why you got to go say that?

2011-08-17T04:16:00.002-05:00

her: "Oh, so you SELF PUBLISHED your book? Ohhhh..."

OUCH.

Now look, YES, I chose to self publish my book. YES, I realize you think this is the easy way out. YES, I understand that you don't this COUNTS.

And, I have to admit, I sort of felt this way at first, too. Like, if I didn't actually send out tens (hundreds, thousands) of letters to literary agents and fight my way through an equal number of rejections (most of which offer no hope, no personal message of encouragement) that I haven't actually done the work of a REAL author and therefore I was NOT a real author.

A poser. An impostor. A fake.

I struggled with this A LOT.

I did send out one letter. Actually, it was an email. (Side note: I think it must be so much easier for an agent to dismiss potential authors via email.) And, yes, I was rejected.

I made an exhaustive list of possible agents, focusing on those who represent Young Adult fiction. I composed and rewrote and reworked and threw away and rewrote again a fun, funny, serious letter which I planned to mail to as many of those agents as my little tongue could lick forever stamps for. (I keep reading that and it just doesn't sound write - and I consider myself a WRITER. P'shaw.)

But then...I didn't send any of them. School started, it was my first year of teaching, and I just got lost. I lost weight, I lost track of time, I lost myself. And my book was the least of my priorities.

And then it was summer, and then it was another school year, and then it was summer, and then it was...

Well, you get the idea.

Then Tatum turned thirteen and I let her read the book. It has some adult-ish scenes in it, a little bit of the swearing, but I felt she could handle it, and besides, she's my kid, we talk, and she WANTED to read something I wrote. No way I was saying no to that.

Then I mentioned that Karl was self publishing his book.

Then JC mentioned to Tatum that I could publish my book myself if I wanted to.

Then Tatum kinda wouldn't drop it.

So I self published my book this summer.

Am I a real author if I don't go through the paces? If my book doesn't say Random House on the inside cover? If I don't get a $10,000 advance? If it doesn't have a place on the shelves of Barnes and Noble?

Here's what I think:

her: "Oh, so you SELF PUBLISHED your book?"
me: "Yes, I did."
her: "Oh." (superior tone implied)
me: "I'm sorry, remind me again how many books you've written?"

I think I am a real author. I wrote a book. (Two, actually. Three, sorta.) I wrote it and proofread it and revised it and worked hard to make sure it had a plot and character development and emotion and a story. I had help from people (some obvious and some more ethereal) who were invested in my success. I sat at a computer for hours on end and WROTE A BOOK.

Therefore I am an author. Even if I self-published.

So far I've sold ~~ten~~ eleven copies of my book. How many copies do you think she's sold? Do you think people can buy her book on CreateSpace? Or search for her name on Amazon?

My name is Sherry Mann. And I SELF PUBLISHED a book.

I am an author.

Publish on Demand. (Please demand.) Or: Today is a very big day for me.

2011-08-16T04:12:00.028-05:00

Is that BIG ENOUGH? Can you see MY BOOK up there?

Oh. My. Gosh. You guys. You can totally buy my book now. Like, for real. I don't even know what to say. I feel silly and giddy and slightly embarrassed and joyous and frightened and, well, PROUD.

Here's the deal: I write (I guess you know that as many of you come around here daily to see if I'm crying or bitching, falling apart or pulling it together, talking about my kids at home or my kids at school). I LOVE to write.

A few years ago, I joined a online community where you could earn credits by critiquing the writing of others, and in turn, you could use your credits to submit your own chapters to be critiqued. It was a laborious process. Often you would click on a story, hopeful that the title and genre meant the writing could be of interest to you, only to find a story that was full of misspellings, had no plot, was far too earnest, or, frankly, sucked.

But every once in awhile, you would click on a story that you actually LIKED.

Enter Karl Fields.

Karl Fields, a Mos Def look alike who lives in Texas and writes middle grade fiction. A guy who has very little in common with a Tina Fey look alike who lives in Pennsylvania and writes young adult fiction.

But I thought: HEY! That's my genre. I teach middle grade fiction kids! Even better? Karl could write. And, for some reason, Karl wanted to read what I wrote, too.

I can't remember who went first (he read my stuff or I read his), but we became a mutual admiration society. He loved (and recommended my stuff) and I felt the same about his. We would give detailed critiques to each other so that we could fix and improve and get better.

Karl gave good critique.

Karl also decided to use Amazon's services to make his book available as a publish on demand title. I watched in amazement (and read, as Karl and I became friends OUTSIDE the confines of the critiquing site and began emailing one another weekly) as he talked about formatting and making a cover and PDFs and eReaders and WELL...it was SUPER cool. (p.s. You should buy his book, too. I did - and it's the first read aloud this school year!)

I made the mistake of mentioning this to my family (which was five people at the time), and JC and Tatum became preoccupied with me following suit. I should publish on demand. Tatum, in particular, who has read this book (and apparently thought it was "OK") kept after me.

She, in fact, came up with the idea for the book cover and, along with her father's help, photographed my feet (it's a key part of the book - but you'll have to read to understand) for it.

Again, Karl stepped up and became my constant companion, guiding me through the set up process to make my book ready (he even tweaked the cover to it's current state of awesome).

All of this happened this summer in the MIDDLE OF THE BIG D.

So, basically, I'm just a girl, standing in front of a guy (or a girl), asking him (or her) to buy my book.

But you should know up front that I am nervous about this. It's weird and scary to put something so personal out there for others to read and openly discuss. I mean, OBVIOUSLY you'll love it, but there might be someone out there who says mean things about my book or my writing or ME.

However, if I've learned nothing else, I do understand that you have to take chances in life. You have to put something out there EVEN if someone else doesn't like it.

I'm not searchable on Amazon yet (I'll let you know when I am), but you can buy my book by clicking on my link over there on the side, or just CLICK HERE.

Tell your sister to buy a copy. And your mom. And your neighbor. I've been told by people who already like me that it is a good book. Maybe even great. My BFF's teenage daughter is even kind of in awe that someone she knows wrote and ACTUAL BOOK that she liked.

So...you gonna buy it or what?

Tuesday - The real sh*t is happening Tuesday

2011-08-15T04:18:00.001-05:00

Sorry. This one isn't on me. It's on an outside source over which I have no control.

So check back tomorrow. Or maybe later today.

YOU GUYS. Do it.

In other news - Tina Fey gave birth to her second daughter last week!

It's worth the wait.

2011-08-11T04:16:00.011-05:00

Today I am driving my daughter two hours away for her (lame) (no it's not) summer vacation.

Her parents got divorced this summer, yo, so she got the shaft on that wholesome family tradition of loading everyone into the van and driving to the nearest hot spot (literally - we usually do the beach) for a week of boredom away from home, sunburn, "stop touching me," and "we have to eat WHERE?"

Yeah, she is pretty depressed about missing out on that. (Of course, THAT'S not really what's bothering her, but it's symbolic, yes?)

ANYWAY, I managed to somehow afford a one night getaway to the place we visited last year where she admitted to "not really enjoying because she was too busy pretending to hate everyone."

So, while she and I are off walking the streets of Baltimore and taking photos with her seventeen vintage cameras, I will not be posting tomorrow.

BUT MONDAY?

Oh, yeah. The real shit is happening Monday.

A teaser:

p.s. Taking a photos of yourself with your iPhone and no help is VERY DIFFICULT.

Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, my BFF is a pretty good deal

2011-08-09T04:18:00.002-05:00

Five years ago, as I completed the program where they decided I would be allowed to TEACH CHILDREN, I was asked where I wanted to student teach. Usually this is answered with the name of a school district close to your homebase or a specific school in a specific school district where you are hoping to be noticed.

When I was asked, I said, "I'd like to student teach in the kindergarten classroom of Jenni S******* at H******* Elementary school." Yes, I was THAT specific.

Fortunately, I'd spoken to her before and she was happy to oblige.

Here's the thing: I didn't know Jenni very well at that time. She had a phenomenal reputation as a teacher, I'd seen her in action and she treated her kids the way I wanted to treat the kids, and she was friendly, approachable, and, well, frankly I thought we'd get along well.

And when you are about to spend half a school year in someone else's classroom, you want to make sure it will be an experience you can both learn from and enjoy. ('Cause I know you won't believe it, but there are actually some TERRIBLE teachers out there, you guys.)

January rolled around and I walked into the classroom and began my illustrious career as a student teacher. I won't walk through it (this post has a different purpose) but I will say that it was a FABULOUS experience. (Except the first day I "took over" the classroom and taught the full day - Jenni stopped speaking to me and was miserable - until she admitted that she was envious or jealous or weirded out about giving up her class. Trust me, she quickly got over it. The kids we had that year were RIDICULOUSLY difficult.)

ANYWAY. Fast forward to now. Because now she is my BFF. This didn't happen by any sort of plan. We taught together, we found out we liked each other, and we became close...and closer...and closest.

That's a picture of my BFF giving me a hug at a party celebrating my 40th birthday.

That's a picture of Griffin and Jenni pretending to be drunk (and getting drunker) at the same party (her idea).

As you can imagine, I've needed the support of friends more than ever recently. And many have stepped up. I had many who came to help clean and paint my new abode. Many have sent me thoughtful cards (that reduced me to tears - in a good way). Some had baked things for me. Some had stopped by to check on me. Some have invited me out. Some have provided services as blockers when they knew I would have to spend awkward moments with someone I didn't want to see (or make feel better about MY divorce). Some send happy thoughts via email.

I have to say, regardless of what I do WRONG, I must be doing something right because I have some pretty fabulous friends.

Here's the thing, while each of my friends has done something on the list above, Jenni has done EVERYTHING on the list and then some. I practically cry just thinking about what she has meant to me over the course of the past five years...and over the course of the past five months.

There were the obvious things, like hugs and pep talks. She made sure I didn't spend time alone during the first week my kids were with their dad (unless I wanted to be on my own). She painted. And painted. And painted some more (when all others left me hanging). She cuddled up on the couch with the dog and me to watch stupid girlie movies.

But there were the less obvious things - things she probably didn't know meant so much to me. When I came to her at school, multiple mornings, looking for a shoulder to cry on, she stood there and let me even though I know she had copies to make before the bell rang. She and her husband, wishful that I was part of a couple, (nevertheless) invited me to dinner on multiple Saturday nights (and we had a blast) so I wouldn't be alone (see previous posts about dinner alone). She chatted with my kids. She texted me randomly to check on me. She refused to indulge me when I was mopey. And then she let me mope. She took me to lunch. She sent her husband to mow my lawn. She let me borrow her husband to tear out shelving in my basement. SHE MIGHT HAVE FOUND THE PROBLEM WITH THE LEAKY BASEMENT AND SHE WANTS TO HELP ME FIX IT THIS WEEKEND.

There are a million other things - big and little both - but I just want to say, to anyone out there, that she is a big reason why I am making it through this.

Another thing I love about her? She'd refuse to take credit for any success I've had in making through to the other side of new normal.

She's just super cool like that.

You got one of those?

Basements blow, Shop Vacs suck

2011-08-09T04:11:00.008-05:00

Dear Prince Charming,

Perhaps you don't remember me. My name's Sherry.

OK, OK, you caught me. We haven't met. But I think you'd really like me. I'm cute and funny, I cook like nobody's business, I'm smart and knowledgable, I read AND write, and I love my job. I'm like the perfect package.

(In an effort to provide full disclosure, I also suffer from OCD, I am a tad bit controlling, I don't enjoy heights, I can't sleep without my little blue pill, and _____________ - it's too depressing to go on.)

Here's the deal: it seems as if my basement is determined to be the BANE OF MY EXISTENCE.

New gutters only helped alleviate some of the problem, which is apparently farther reaching than a sixteen year old boy's hands in a darkened movie theater.

Now, my BFF tried to convince me that my basement leakage problem was due to SIDEWAYS rain on Saturday night, which occurred while I slept soundly in my bed, and while I appreciate her efforts - come on. SIDEWAYS RAIN? I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.

It leaks because it is seventy-one years old. HELL, I leak and I'm only forty-two years old.

When they built this house they didn't have the (you pick) technology, forethought, skills, knowledge of my impending divorce. Sooooo, they dug deep into the ground, built a basement, affixed a house on top of it, and clapped each other on the backs as they went home.

Someone suggested to me that, if I want to fix the problem, I have to DIG OUT AROUND THE FOUNDATION, HAVE THE OUTSIDE BASEMENT WALLS TREATED, AND THEN KILL MYSELF.

Sounds around right.

So, Prince Charming, I thought maybe you could come by and, you know, TAKE CARE OF THINGS. Because frankly, I'm exhausted. This stress is driving me nuts. I just want to wake up one morning and not have to toss money at something in my house. My sweet, lovely, falling apart house. Oy.

I tried to look you up in the yellow pages, but I didn't see your number. So I figured a letter might be my best bet. Surely YOU read my blog.

Feel free to stop by. You can bring a shovel, or, if the king is feeling generous, he can lend me his personal construction crew so you and I can get better acquainted while the plebs DIG OUT THE FOUNDATION.

Love (probably),
Sherry

Dinner for One

2011-08-08T04:06:00.006-05:00

Sunday was a busy day (more on THAT tomorrow), but I was determined to have dinner. I know that seems silly, but remember, I have been having food issues of late. So, I bought groceries on Friday afternoon with the intent that I would both cook and eat when dinner time rolled around.

'Cause, I don't know if you guys know it or not, but that's what people DO.

You can see how well my menu planning went by the note I posted on my fridge. Usually there is something listed for EVERY day - a protein/main course, a side dish, and a veggie. Sometimes I even list a dessert.

Nary a bother. My fridge and freezer are stocked with food, so even without pre-planning, I was determined to eat. EAT, poppa, eat.

Around 8:00pm Sunday evening, I heated up the grill pan, seasoned my filet, and tossed it on the burner. While that was cooking (6 minutes per side for a juicy pink steak), I prepared a salad with homemade Caesar dressing and my dad's homegrown tomatoes, and made a baked sweet potato. My dinner was smelling yummy. Daisy busied herself licking the popping grease off the floor, Mama sat by the door ready to go out, and I even got out a piece of chocolate pie for dessert.

EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT.

I set myself a place at the table with a napkin, silverware, and ice water. I placed my perfectly plated food on the table and sat down. I had music playing on the iPod and Daisy at my feet. I cut into my steak and enjoyed the first savory bite.

And then I figured out why I don't eat dinner when my kids are with JC.

By the time I was on the second bite, I was in tears. And then I pretty much proceeded to cry through my entire meal.

See, I don't want to eat dinner without my kids. I miss them so much my heart aches. ACHES.

I'm not worried about what's going on at JC's house. I'm not envious or curious or concerned. And I know they love their dad and want to spend time with him, too.

But I don't enjoy sitting at the table without them.

I guess if nothing else, I'm certainly putting it all out there, huh? Do you guys still read this blather? And I know there are those of the "suck it up" camp - but yanno - how do you suck this up?

So, I guess I'll go back to grabbing a bite on the go, going out with friends, or eating a bowl of cereal on the couch when I am childless. Maybe I'll take a class. Something to fit into my new normal, which includes seven days without my kids.

And then have fabulous meals with my kids when they are here. At the table. WITHOUT tears.

Not a fan

2011-08-05T04:03:00.006-05:00

The other night, as I was getting changed into my jammies, I reached over my head to take my shirt off (THE NERVE) and my thumb was almost amputated.

I know, RIGHT?

Seems the ceiling in my new bedroom is a TAD lower than at my previous residence. A tad. Like, that bedroom had a vaulted ceiling and sky lights. And this one is barely six feet off the ground (40's houses still your JAM, Patrick? Are you a travel sized guy?)

Anyhow, when I reached up to remove my other arm from the day's t-shirt, I was a few feet to the left when I should have been to the right, and THWACK SMACK CRASH - instant pain. Of course, there was no swelling and no bruising, so it was pretty damn hard to work up any sympathy from my children. But, man my thumb hurt like a motherf*cker for about thirty-six hours.

Lesson learned: don't change clothes, like, EVER, or make sure you change on the OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM. With your arms pinned to your side. Buy larger garments that you can slide over your hips. VELCRO.

So, in no particular order, here are a few OTHER things that I don't love about my new normal (because it isn't all wine and roses PEOPLE):

There is one bathroom.
Cat hair is MUCH more noticeable when you don't have any carpet.
Daggers sheds a lot more than I realized. (see: #2)
There are an inordinate amount of teenagers with loud, bass thumping speakers driving past my house at all hours of the day AND night.
Daisy has to pee EVEN IF IT IS RAINING.
My front door sucks. It sticks, it's uneven, it has no peep hole, and it needs replaced.
There isn't sufficient electricity in the kitchen to cook anything.
I make frequent trips to the breaker box in the basement. (see: #7)
The closest grocery store is sketchy and caters to stoned teenagers.
My kids are only here part of the time.

But other than THOSE THINGS, I'm perfectly fine.

I exaggerate, of course. Those things above are nothing compared to the sheer fact that after twenty-two years, I am alone. There is something so base, so comforting about the shorthand you create with a person when you are together for that many years. And to wake up and find it gone - even if you are AMICABLE - is jarring.

That is not to say that I think this was the wrong decision (I waiver on that), in fact, you know from previous posts that I'm doing OK, but the fall out from the decision isn't always the best. Or easiest. Or even tolerable.

Some days I relish it. I lap it up. I think I missed the "on-my-own" phase that most people get between high school and college or college and marriage. JC and I talked about that a lot, actually. I like having MY OWN space and things, even though it's scary.

And some days I just really want to come home, look at the other person in the room and sigh and have him know EXACTLY what that means. To have a shorthand.

I have some really terrific friends, but they have families of their own, so it makes sense that I am not their shorthand person.

I miss shorthand. Shorthand makes me cry WORSE than hitting my thumb on a moving ceiling fan.

Just sayin'. Didn't want you guys to go thinking I was all OK and whatnot.

Pity party in my room. Just don't stretch.

Smile!

2011-08-04T04:12:00.028-05:00

5th grade Reed

11th grade Reed (note the J Crew tie)

Facebook is alight with photos posted by proud parents and kids alike - senior photos.

And not just one photo - an entire SERIES of photos. There are TREES! Multiple OUTFITS! More than one HAIRSTYLE. PROPS!

While I am a relatively practical person, I have to admit, these galleries seem like a lot of fun. Sort of a neat culmination of long years spent surviving middle and high school, and coming out on the other side on the cusp of adulthood, ALL GROWED UP (as Tommy Pickles would say).

Of course, there was NO CHANCE of this happening in my family.

When we received notification in the mail announcing dates for senior portraits at the high school in August, the most I could get out of Reed was a heavy sigh and an eye roll. But, the only way to get your photo in the yearbook, which I pay SIXTY DOLLARS to purchase, was to go to one of these sessions. So I called and set up a date in August, early in the morning at his request. 'Cause DAMMIT, if I'm paying SIXTY DOLLARS I better see your damn face in that thing.

Meanwhile, I listened as mom friends talked about or showed photos of their kids and their designer photo shoots.

Tuesday night the kids were having dinner with JC. Reed called just before returning to my house for the night. He was clearly annoyed, definitely moody, and not at all entertained.

Reed: "What do I need to bring for tomorrow?"
me: "Well, I guess a white shirt and a tie."

(heavy sigh)

Reed: "What about a jacket?"
me: "They provide them. So, you won't need one."
Reed: "Do you care what tie?"
me: (in my head) There is only one tie you are even willing to consider.
me: (trying to sound chipper) "Pick whichever one you want."
me: (in my head) The purple and green J Crew one.
Reed: "Fine."
me: "Look, I know you don't want to do this, but it won't take long."
Reed: "I'll be home in a few minutes."

When he arrived home, with his brother and sister, as well, it was a whirlwind of shit. Tatum couldn't open the door, apparently I pissed her off because she couldn't open the door due to the fact that she was carrying MY stuff from her dad's house, Griffin walked by without saying anything, and Reed made no fewer than three trips to his car making sure to slam the door behind him each time.

IT'S AN OLD HOUSE, DUDE. THINGS WILL BREAK IF YOU SLAM THEM.

Oh, and welcome back to Mom's house!

me: "Is there something wrong, Reed?"
Reed: "Nothing."
me: (in my head) I can totally tell.

Few words were spoken the rest of the evening. He woke up in a little better mood, although he said multiple times that he hoped it didn't take TOO LONG. I assured him we had an appointment time (he scoffed) and that I would buy him the Fairgrounds Special at the conclusion of the torture (two pancakes, two scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, hash browns, and two pieces of toast).

I have to say, I actually did feel bad for the kid. He's one step away from being Sheldon (and that's being generous), so he has issues with a lot of things, but personal space is a big one. And there was NO WAY he was getting through this without a stranger touching him A WHOLE BUNCH OF TIMES. Mostly on the face.

Oy.

He was tense as we waited in the hallway of the high school. He refused to sit. We found a navy jacket that fit perfectly. He tied his purple and green J Crew tie. We waited some more. He looked at his iPhone and sighed loudly. It was three minutes past our appointment time.

When we were shuttled to the photo area, Reed smiled appropriately. The man attempted to make small talk, but quickly gave up when he realized Reed wasn't playing. The mom in me wanted to pull him aside and tell him that Reed is a really cool, interesting kid who just doesn't like to talk to, well, anyone, but I knew that this guy was facing the same situation with about 100 more seniors over the course of the day. He took about ten photos, some SERIOUS, and others where Reed's fake smile made him appear to be constipated.

But, there were a few where the cameraman somehow managed to get Reed to smile genuinely.

And my kid looked pretty damn handsome. My heart swelled.

So, I don't have a glamour shot of him in his Altamont t-shirt. Or one of him posing in front of his pride and joy (Honda Civic). Or any with him standing, crossed armed, in front of a babbling brook.

But we got one nice shoot of him with his J Crew tie and borrowed jacket and genuine smile. AND I had a nice breakfast with him.

I'll take it. (And I'll share the ridiculously expensive photo when I get my copy - in two to four weeks.)

Just updating my status...

2011-08-02T04:14:00.018-05:00

I think it's important to listen when someone tells you something about yourself that may be less than flattering.

I mean, to her face you laugh and tell her to f*ck off, but secretly, when you're at home alone, crying in the mirror, you should think about what she told you. Give it some real thought. Decide if she made a valid point.

My kids tease me about my iPhone. You know, the whole she-gets-the-shakes-when-she-can't-see-it-or-it-isn't-clutched-in-her-cold-clammy-hands deal.

This is a step up from when I had a REGULAR flip phone, on which I would have text messages that I wouldn't see FOR DAYS.

Now I see a text message moments after I receive it. Mostly because it pops up in the middle of trying to see if VECH is an actual word that I can play with my friends.

*I* don't think I have a phone problem, but my kids do. Especially Tatum. She teases me mercilessly.

We were at a family function on Saturday. I purposely left my phone in my purse, which I purposefully left in the kitchen, which was basically one yard, deck, and closed door away. I was going to prove to Tatum that I could go a whole picnic without using my phone.

I mean, really, I have my phone with me at all times because of my kids. In my new normal situation, I ALWAYS want to be a text away. BUT, they were all with me at the picnic, so NO PHONE.

Round about 7:30, several hours after we arrived, my nephew lost his balloon. While this may not sound like a big deal to YOU, his life revolves around his balloons. We spent a lot of time watching the balloon as it sailed higher and higher into the evening sky and trying to convince him the balloon was so happy in its new found freedom.

Then my sister-in-law asked me if I could try to take a photo of the balloon with my phone. Her camera battery had died and she wanted to try to have a photo for him to remember the...whatever.

me: "My phone is in the kitchen. I'll just run in and get it."

I swear I was fine before that. I hadn't experienced cold sweats. I wasn't jonesin' to see the Phillies score. My brain wasn't slashing fruit in my mind's eye. I WAS FINE.

Anyway, the picture attempt was a fail (too high in the sky), but OH Tatum saw the phone in my hand within 30 seconds of closing the kitchen door.

As we resumed our seats on the patio, she launched into a little comedy routine about me and my phone. And because she is my daughter, and because she was getting a laugh, she embellished the story a little bit. A LITTLE BIT. For the laugh.

Come on, you guys know I do that from TIME TO TIME.

Anyway, it was fine and I was playing along, happy to be the brunt of the joke...until she went and said something that made my parents freak out. Something I knew they would latch onto and PRIVATELY MESSAGE ME later about.

Tatum: "Yeah. She's so attached to the phone she texts while she's driving."*
me: "What? I DO NOT."
Tatum: "Like, she updates her FB, too. 'LOL. I just ran a red light.'"
me: "TATUM."

Needless to say, my parents both, independent of one another, sent me a private FB message that evening appalled that I was texting while driving. I'm almost 43 years old and I'm still afraid of my parents and their reprimands.

Sigh.

Of course, I was driving when I got their FB messages, so I promptly replied so as not to worry them. WHILE I WAS DRIVING. I was drinking a 40 and getting a tattoo simultaneously.

'Cause that be how I roll.

*I DO NOT TEXT WHILE I DRIVE. Once I updated my FB at a stop light (it was 97 degrees in February!) and once I texted Griffin "yep" while I sat at a red light. COME ON. I'm a complete idiot, but I do know where to draw the line...hold on, I think if I just angle this a little farther down I can get all the birds at once...

His friends are here! His friends are here!

2011-08-01T04:11:00.029-05:00

Saturday night, as we drove home from a picnic, Griffin was bemoaning the lateness of the hour. NOT because he had some hot date, no, but because he wanted to attach his head gear so he would have the required twelve hours of wear.

It's not easy to fulfill such a lofty requirement when you're a social boy of fifteen who likes to DO things after 8pm. At his last orthodontist appointment, they were all "you're only averaging 11 hours a day" and he was all, "I know I'm not good at math but come on!"

And while I don't think "come on" is an adequate argument when you have a definitive chart from which you can glean the truth, I do know that he makes a conscious effort to do the right thing. He's all Spike Lee like that.

So, back to the car ride. While we had a blast at the belated birthday party (kickball, sparklers, chocolate cake, and Lego car races), he thought for sure we'd be home in time to hook the contraption up to his teeth and get to work on shifting those buggers.

Then he got a phone call, which he took in the back seat of the Rabbit.

him: "Shoot."
me: "What's wrong?"
him: "A bunch of my friends are long boarding at the high school. They want me to come over when I get home."
me: "And?"
him: "I need to get my head gear on. I don't know what to do."
Reed: "You should go."

(and he didn't even want control of the TV)

me: "You could go for a little while. You'll probably sleep late tomorrow anyway, so you'll still get the twelve hours."
him: "I don't know."
Reed: "Just go."

So, within five minutes of arrival at our house, he'd pulled his bike from safe keeping in the basement and was heading toward the high school, less than a block away.

Not thirty minutes later I hear Griffin calling me from the kitchen.

him: "Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mother! Ma! My friends are here."

Seems the kids were hot and tired and wanted something to drink. And they chose to walk to our house even though one of the kids in the group literally lives across the street from the high school.

This, of course, sent chills through the other members of my family: Tatum was mortified - she was already in her jammies, she had taken off her make up, and she is sure she ISN'T cool enough to mingle with the upper classmen. Reed was annoyed - he was tired, he was about to go to bed, and he HATES people. I was thrilled - I like being the house where the kids hang out, I wasn't yet in my jammies, and I LIKE people.

To help, I tried to contain those five teenagers in my little kitchen, plying them with chocolate chip zucchini bread and Cookie Monster cupcakes. We laughed, we chatted, we ate...and then, despite my best efforts, they went looking for Reed.

Poor Reed. As soon as they discovered him in the living room computing away, they plopped down on either side of him. His face was tense, his body rigid - Reed likes his personal space...and his bubble is easily two times bigger than you'd expect. But he was polite if short, answering their questions and smiling awkwardly. They were intrigued by his Apple Camp t-shirt.

Tatum remained hidden in her room. With Dags.

Six Cookie Monster cupcakes later (five of which were devoured by one person) and lots of awkward glances and quiet mumblings - which was around 11pm - those crazy kids slid out the side door in search of...

Mine remained behind, scrambling to put on that head gear.

Tatum emerged from her room, thrilled that her cupcakes were a hit but sad that she didn't have the guts to come out.

The next morning I asked Griffin why the kids didn't just go to Catie's house, which was significantly closer, for water.

him: "They wanted to see Reedmann. Everybody loves Reedmann."

Usually when I write a post I have an "angle." All good blog posts start with an angle.

This has none. It is angle-less.

There is nothing particularly funny or odd about this particular night. There is no punchline. Nothing hilarious said by any of my kids.

I guess I blogged about it just because it felt good. After weeks of things not feeling good or particularly right, last night, in our new house, as a "new normal" family, it was good. My kids, their friends, our house, a good day.

A good day. I like those and try very hard not to take them for granted.

Food Issues

2011-07-29T04:18:00.033-05:00

One of my friends asked me why I didn't suspect that JC was going to ask for a divorce when he stopped eating my cooking. She thought it was a dead giveaway. Given the years I spent independently honing my culinary skills as a sign of my love, NOT eating my food must have been a sign.

You know about my cooking, right?

It was her thought that "losing weight" was a bullshit excuse. By preparing himself a simple salad with a grilled piece of protein slapped on top, abstaining from the food that I took pride in preparing and wowing him with, was the first sign.

Why am I bringing this up?

You guys, I am totally FORGETTING to eat dinner. I guess without others to prepare food for, it simply slips my MIND.

I'm not even kidding.

So, the arrangement for the new normal with the kids is that for one week, from Friday to Thursday, they live with me in my cute little house in town. Then, on Friday, they switch to the JC's house in the quiet suburbs for a week. And so on and so on and so on...until they all go off to college and it's just me, Daisy, Daggers, and that bitch, Mama living out eternity in our little space.

Unless I DIE from malnutrition.

Anyway, when the kids are with me, I continue about life as it was when we were a family of five - I make a menu, considering their favorites and wants, shop for the food, and then prepare meals for the four of us. And it's lovely. We sit at our new dining room table and eat food, spill drinks, and talk about Formula 1 while Tatum rolls her eyes. Griffin keeps reminding me that I need to cook less, and I keep cooking too much and then giving what remains to grateful friends.

It's a great system.

But.

But this week was my first week without my kids. (Don't even get me started - you got tissues?) My friends did a decent job keeping me busy, for which I will be forever appreciative, but there was plenty of time to be on my own. And, on those nights, I realized, as I tucked myself into bed, that I had simply forgotten to eat dinner.

Seems without the impetus to prepare food, or friends to remind me to fill my belly, I simply didn't.

For example, on Wednesday, over the course of the day, I had half an English muffin with grape jelly, a peach, a handful of Sun Chips (Harvest Cheddar flavor, thank you very much), a wintergreen Lifesaver, and a piece of peanut butter toast. On Thursday, I had a blueberry pancake, one scrambled egg, more Sun Chips, and a mini Twix bar.

You guys.

Before you assume, this has nothing to do with depression. I'm actually doing quite well despite the circumstances (see: divorce, custody, Dry Lock, Mama, money, Mama, mortgage, eye disease, Mama). I'm sleeping, I'm involved, my kids are with me ALL the time, I have great friends, I'm keeping busy, school is getting ready to start.

I'm not depressed. Or, not more depressed than any other normal human being.

I MEAN it. I'm just forgetting to eat.

So, at 9:30pm, I forced myself to have dinner.

BLT with mayo and butter on toast

Rainbow cake

I mean, it wasn't like I had to choke it down - I happily ate it - but had I not made the conscious decision to EAT DINNER, I would have been fine without it.

I'm not sure the point of this post. I guess maybe I'm concerned. At 115 pounds, I think my kids better start spending more time with me right around 6pm or I'm gonna have ANOTHER one of those awkward conversations with the family doctor again real soon.

Reunited and it feels so...bothersome.

2011-07-28T04:19:00.007-05:00

I am owner of one of the meanest cats in the universe. She ranks right up there with Genghis Khan, that cashier at Walmart, and Kate Beckinsale.

Mama.

The last thing to make the transition to my new abode were the pets. Daisy came first, and a few days later, when the contractor was finished leaving doors wide open, I brought Daggers and Mama, the dynamic duo.

I love my pets, but those cats...well, they were a huge pain in the ass.

Daggers either hid under furniture and refused to eat or drink, or he was meowing LOUDLY outside my bedroom door in the middle of the night. Yeah, hiding during the day, bellowing during the night. PERFECT.

Mama walked around with her tail in the air, pissed off. So, yeah, NORMAL.

On the second day, god made front doors. And, when I opened mine at 10:30pm to take Daisy out to pee, Mama snuck out. A low riding car blaring rap music (insert other stereotypes here) drove by at the most inopportune moment, scared the bejeezus out of her, and she took off.

Now, Mama spends ninety percent of her time outside doing WHO KNOWS WHAT and ten percent of her time inside shooting me looks of disdain. However, this was not how we intended to reintroduce Mama to the wild. I figured we'd take her out to the backyard, show her the new digs, acquaint her with our property boundaries, and then she'd come and go as she pleased.

Instead, low car, rap music, scared shitless, gone.

Like, GONE.

Now, I've heard all of the cat stories and I knew that she would probably show up at some point, but, she'd never seen the house in daylight and wasn't really familiar with where we were...and I was dealing with a thirteen year old girl who managed to convince herself that SHE LIKED MAMA and was broken up about her disappearance.

Eleven days. She was gone eleven days.

Until Wednesday morning, at 7:10am, when I took Daisy out the side door and THERE SHE WAS. (That bitch.)

And instead of admitting that she was happy to see me (food), she turned around and went back into the copse of trees beside my house. I was all, "Mama! Mama! MAMA!" And she was all, "Maybe."

Where she should have been begging me to take her in, jumping for joy at our reunion, showing gratitude for my timing, she was annoyed to be bothered by me and was there any way she could get the food without actually having me TOUCH her.

Bitch.

I dutifully posted it on FB and congratulatory messages flooded in. And I'm all like, "It is MAMA, guys. Remember?"

She's like the head varsity cheerleader of the football team - she's too good for you, but every once in awhile, she nods in your general direction to keep you hoping that one day you'll be friends.

And oh lord was Daggers beside himself with joy when he saw her. She shrugged at him.

And at 10:23am, belly full and hairballs hocked up onto my nice hardwood floors, she snuck out the side door again.

Bitch.

(I love cats.)

'Cause if things don't suck, they should definitely blow.

2011-07-26T04:02:00.011-05:00

Tatum called me the other night, one of her first nights at her dad's house (aka one of her first nights without me). She was upset about a friend and wanted to talk. I was glad to do it. So happy she called, in fact. It was a productive conversation that I felt really good about. My daughter and I? We have a RELATIONSHIP now.

And then it was time to say goodbye. Only it wasn't goodbye, it was also goodnight. Overcome by emotion, I was unable to hide the fact that I was crying.

her: "Are you crying?"
me: "A little."
her: "Why?"
me: "Because this is hard. It's hard to say good night to you over the phone."

silence

her: "Well, just remember. THIS was all your idea."
me: (biting the inside of my cheek) "That doesn't mean it isn't hard. I was prepared to be away from Dad...but not from you. And sometimes the right things are hard."

Last night, moments after I said goodnight to my kids following our divorce mandated Monday night dinner (the week they are with JC, they have dinner with me on Monday and vice versa). We had a good meal, some rainbow cake, watched a movie, and did a nose bonk - it's a bike thing, you wouldn't understand - and I happily said good night. I didn't want to see them go, but I'd already planned to see a late showing oF Friends with Benefits.

Something to keep my mind off of my kids not being with me.

Except I wasn't going to see the movie. At least, not last night.

I got a text from JC: Please come over. Steve is dead.

Being the emotional wreck that you guys have come to know and love, I started crying before I could pull my car keys from my bag, and I headed over to JC's house.

Steve, as you can probably tell from the photo at the top of this post, was Griffin's pet turtle. Obtained illegally by Uncle Dave at a campground years ago when he was merely the size of a quarter (the turtle, NOT Uncle Dave), Steve has thrived in the care of my ridiculously zoologically inclined son.

And now he's dead.

When I arrived, on the most hot, humid night, they were already at the back of the yard, back where Griffin intended to dig a pond for Steve, burying him. I walked up and hugged Griffin while we both cried. Reed, Tatum, and JC were all there, too, our strange, fractured family mourning a turtle. He opened the box to show me Steve, cuddled up in the little towel he used when he took Steve from the tank to play in the outdoors. It seemed appropriate that this was how Steve would spend eternity.

Griffin insisted on covering the box with dirt even though the recent drought made this the most difficult task. He dug and tossed, dug and tossed.

Then we went inside.

I trudged up the stairs behind him and watched as he took off his shoes and socks, his shoulders slumped, leaning against his knees. Then he started sobbing. I sat next to him and rubbed his back, trying to console him.

Problem was, I knew what he wanted. He wanted to be alone.

And, to leave him alone, I would have to go BACK TO MY HOUSE.

The pain this caused me is immeasurable, something I can't even begin to explain or hope that you will understand --- but I couldn't be selfish. I couldn't stay because it wasn't my house and he wanted to be alone.

So I left.

He texted me almost immediately after I arrived back at my house and apologized TO ME for asking to be alone. Apologized TO ME.

And I heard Tatum's voice in my ears as I sat on my couch, alone, and wondered how he was doing.

"Remember, this was your idea..."

In which I admit I am not f*cking Tim the Toolman Taylor

2011-07-25T04:10:00.011-05:00

Dear lord, on Sunday, right around 11:00am, I WANTED TO DIE.

You guys, I'm not even exaggerating. (Maybe a little.)

Here's the background - I bought my house on a Thursday. On Friday, THE FIRST DAY, I was at my home with a few friends, all of whom were feverishly painting. Then it started to rain. And rain. AND RAIN.

It rained pretty hard. Like, build-an-ark hard.

My contractor, who was constructing a room for Griffin in the basement, called upstairs. Apparently there was A PROBLEM. I was ill-equipped for A PROBLEM. Luckily, my BFF was there, so she checked it out for me.

Seems there was A PROBLEM with WATER FILLING THE BASEMENT.

Previous home owners were a little less than honest in the disclosure, in which they said, "occasionally there is a small amount of water near the oil tank in a sideways rain."

Yeah, I feel a little stupid that I didn't realize how THAT WAS A POORLY WORDED LIE.

We shop vac-ed the heck out of the basement, JC promptly replaced the gutters, and I drummed my fingers on the table. LEMON ran through my mind.

But it was an expensive lemon, so I had to make lemonade.

I hired someone to caulk the seam between the cement porch and sidewalk and my basement walls, as well as the windows to the basement. Griffin crawls up on a ladder once a week to clean out the gutters. And over the weekend, my BFF's husband and I cleaned and prepped the basement for DRY LOCK.

Yes, it's as awful as it sounds.

Matt tore down shelves (and provided entertainment) while I scraped the walls and vacuumed the debris. IT WAS TONS OF FUN, NOT HOT AT ALL, AND NOT HUMID, EITHER. (Sarcasm, folks. Here all week.) The idea was that I would be able to wake up Sunday morning bright and early, and dry lock the hell out of the walls that had been carefully prepared.

OMG. Have you guys ever tried to do this?

Look, I realize there are a lot of things I HAVE to do now that I am both husband and wife in this relationship (that sentence worries me a little bit), but Dry Lock is where I think I'll draw the line. Look, I dragged my 50 pound trash bags to the curb last night. I walk the dog 798 times a day. I GO INTO THE SCARY BASEMENT AT NIGHT ALONE. I trim trees. I mow lawns.

I do not, apparently, Dry Lock.

That stuff is thicker than molasses, and a roller soaked in the questionable substance weighs nearly 2000 pounds (that's a TON!). Then, when you struggle to lift it up so as to slap it on the walls, it's goopy and sloppy and it ONLY COVERS ABOUT THREE INCHES. Plus, even though I've scraped the walls to within an inch of the dirt that surrounds them, the roller still pulled off debris that I wasn't able to remove.

Sigh.

Three hours and one gallon later, I had covered about 10 square feet.

Failure.

The only good thing about the weekend was that Matt, who is friendly to a fault, introduced himself to my across the street neighbor, who shall forever be known on this blog as "Ass Crack McGee" and told me to cross my fingers - maybe we could go on a DATE!

I like lamp.

2011-07-22T04:14:00.050-05:00

It's not easy refurnishing a home for myself, three kids, a dog and a cat. (Well, two cats...but Mama seems to have run away...a story for another day.) Well, at least on my budget. And in a week's time.

See, since JC kept the marital house, it was mutually agreed that he would keep most of the furniture. Also, his house is big and the furniture that populates it was purchased specifically to fill that space. The couch, the dining room table, the bedroom. My house? Not so big.

Then there's the kids' stuff. I hardly wanted to be seen as the mom who was emptying out the house, so they left their bedrooms in tact and I replaced their beds, dressers, desks, and bookshelves.

Listen, I left more than I was comfortable leaving, but (being the martyr that I am) I did it for my kids. And, right or wrong, I make most of my decisions currently, when it is hard or confusing, based on my kids.

For example, there's a wall of photos in JC's house...all the way up the stairs. Fifty, sixty photos spanning from birth to current day. They represent a boat load of work. Picking photos, having them enlarged, framing them, hanging them. I wanted to take them, I wanted to keep them. But Tatum...Tatum asked me not to take them. She thought it would be too sad to have to look at nail holes and empty spaces every time she was staying with her dad. So I left them.

Plus, there's something to be said for a fresh start. Right?

IKEA was my inexpensive if annoying Swedish friend. You can buy a LOT of furniture there for not a lot of money. Of course, it weighs a TON and it is not always the easiest to put together, but it's fun and functional, so there's that. IN MY PRICE RANGE. And it made the kids happy.

Shopping tip: you can get a good deal on a decent couch and love seat at Value City. And the name is surprisingly NOT misleading.

Walmart (shudder) has an interesting selection of basic goods if you shop online. And it's great if you don't mind feeling like a cheap hooker. I bought mattresses from the last stop before hell and they came shrink wrapped in this crazy duffle bag. When you sliced them open, they slowly filled with air and became full and proper mattresses. Hooray Walmart!

I was as practical as possible, forgoing expensive for useful, extra for enough, and kids' wants for mine.

And I was perfectly happy doing so. Plus, I think I did OK. My house looks like me, feels like me, and is a HOME.

BUT.

But, there were one or two things I bought just because I wanted them. I bought a cute set of bowls at TJ Maxx. I got a funky end table and adorable vase at Ross. And I bought this lamp at Marshall's.

The lamp was not an impulse buy. And Marshall's isn't in my backyard.

I went to Marshall's no less than four times before I bought the lamp. It cost $31 with tax...not a lot of money, but money I wasn't comfortable spending on myself.

Until Tuesday.

Tuesday I decided, as Tatum and I drove home from IKEA, that I wanted that lamp and dammit, I was gonna have it. It is the exact perfect color match for my bedroom, it's cool as nuts, and I worked hard these past two weeks.

So I bought it. And I love it.

Tim "The Toolman" Taylor

2011-07-20T04:17:00.017-05:00

For all of my life, I've had a built-in handy man.

My father could do most things around the house, and he did. He poured concrete, he built sheds, he planted gardens, he tilled flower beds, he painted trim, he hung pictures...you get the idea. If I needed something done, I asked my dad.

When I was 19, I became half of a couple. And, although I had considered my father to be handy, he was a ten year old girl wielding a blow torch at a ball in comparison to JC. My dad was handy, for sure, but JC PLANNED everything. Used the best materials. Didn't want to do things twice. FIXED THINGS.

So, where I would have smacked a nail into the wall to hang a picture, he knew that molly bolts would be a far superior way to accomplish that task. If I thought we could just dig a little hole, he would dig a gigantic hole, fill the bottom with rocks, secure the post, and pour concrete to make sure the basketball hoop would never be threatened by 100mph winds.

I became a pointer. I would point to a picture, then to the wall, and it would be hung. I would point to a broken part of the fence, and it would be fixed. I would point to something that had, by all appearances, been BROKEN, and low and behold, within a few days it would be good as new.

And I never asked how or why, I just gave him a peck on the cheek, smiled, and felt warm and fuzzy because LIFE WAS GOOD.

You know where I'm going here, don't you?

I used to look at an old house with stars in my eyes. The charm! The character! The unexpected! Now I look at my charming, character filled, unexpected house and shake my head. I don't know how to fix THAT. I have no idea what THAT thing poking out of the wall is for. I don't understand why THAT thing is even there.

But I don't want to ask JC. Don't get me wrong - he's been helpful. During the first week he was over replacing gutters and unclogging drains. But I hated it. I loved that he was willing to help, but I didn't want to NEED him too.

That's stupid of course, because for 22 years, he was that guy.

Now that I'm officially moved out of his house and into mine (It's cute, right? You saw the photos!) I want - NEED - to start doing things for myself.

Too bad I never paid enough attention.

Oh sure, I toss around words like shim and toggle bolt. But that's just because I've HEARD those words before. That doesn't mean I know what to do with them.

Fast forward to my first night in my house. Nervous and excited, I curled up in my bed with Daisy, pulled out a magazine and read. Half an hour later, I turned off the light and snuggled down in for an inaugural snooze. Only to find that there was so much light streaming in through the windows that there was no chance I was getting any sleep.

Now I understood why the previous owners had glued heavily lined dark green ~~monstrosities~~ curtains to the windows.

I would need to install blinds on my windows.

I'm running out of money to refurnish, so I'd have to buy something stock instead of perusing those fancy bound books of choices for the moneyed customers. But, I found some "room darkening" roller shades, had them cut to size-ish, and bought the mounting hardware.

This, of course, led to a hilarious text exchange with my BFF, Jenni, who mistook the word "fucking" in: "Look at me, I'm fucking Tim The Toolman Taylor" to be a verb when it was intended to be an adjective. (Go ahead, read it both ways. I'll wait.)

(Side note: I am NOT fucking Tim The Toolman Taylor - in either sense of the word.)

ANYWAY.

YOU GUYS! I did it! I installed the blinds myself!

Above you see one of the brackets I had to install. There were six of them in all, and they aren't ALL straight, but they are all installed. And, please note how close to the top of the window frame the top nail is (but not how I didn't allow for wiggle room - I KNOW the nail is supposed to be in the smaller end of the opening but I was trying to get the shades as close to the top of the window as possible - please just let me have this). Very difficult to hammer, so, not having a nail punch (yeah, I know what that is), I improvised by using a screwdriver to get it the whole way in.

And here is the final result - the shade as it appears installed BY YOURS TRULY!

And while it may be a very small accomplishment in a lifetime of much bigger ones to come, I cannot explain the amount of pride and self-satisfaction I felt last night as I pulled the shades closed right before I went to bed.

Harry Potter And the Deathly Hallows Part 2 (Movie Review)

2011-07-19T04:02:00.000-05:00

I got into the Harry Potter craze a tad bit on the late side. Like, last winter.

It was sort of embarrassing, as a 5th grade teacher, to admit to my class of eager ten year olds that I had NO IDEA about this Potter boy or his crazy spells. The gasps. The slack jaws. The empty eyes. I lost respect from the avid readers in my class. So, when my favorite kid started rereading the books at the beginning of the school year, talking to me about them at every lunch, I decided I needed to give them a try.

On the positive side, I didn't have to wait a year or more between books being released! I read the first a little slowly, the second more quickly, and devoured the rest. Couldn't put them down. Became invested in the boy who lived and his friends.

ANYWAY.

I went to see the final movie last night.

Griffin: "So, is it a good movie, or is it just a thing for people who read the books?"

(Yeah, none of my kids have read the books.)

What a great question. Is it a good movie? Is the story only important to the people who have read the books? Who goes to the see the movies, and if you see them first, does that make you more likely to pick up the books?

Certainly, based on the audience in the theater in which I watched the movie, there were many people who were completely engaged in the action - who I KNOW haven't picked up a book in twenty years. However, they mostly likely loved the movie because they saw the first seven movies.

I don't know. I think the movies are uneven at best. Child actors in early films and uneven plots throughout (how could you EVER fit the density of the books into a screen appropriate film?) made some better than others. Can you watch one and not the others?

But certainly not the one I saw last night. To watch Deathly Hallows Part 2, umm, sorry, but you had to see part one. And, frankly, would Part 1 make sense without the others? (You get my point.)

So, on to the review.

I thought this film was superior to Part 1 (which I also liked). It was emotional and fulfilling and included a fitting end for our friends and their journey to kill he who can't be named.

In the final film, Harry must find the last of the Horcruxes and destroy them so that he may defeat Voldemort. There is the epic battle for Hogwarts. And an epilogue to please all.

The best parts?

Hands down, the best part of the film (and the final book) was Snape's death and the revelations that come from sharing his tears with Harry. Harry was able to see just exactly what Snape did, who he really was --- and it was beautiful and touching. (Yes, I said that.) The flashbacks into Snape's childhood, how he was devoted to Lilly, and the glimpses into how he helped Harry survive humanized a wizard who had never been likable. Not only humanized, but made triumphant.

The discovery that Snape shared a doe patronus with Lilly? Wonderful.

And Lilly? Yes, the scene in the Forbidden Forest in which Harry comes face to face with beloved family and friends who have died would bring tears to the eyes of the most cynical viewer. "You've been so brave."

And, yeah, I'm sorry, but Ron and Hermonie kissed.

Griffin already knew the answer to the question he posed to me, but I guess he wanted my opinion as well. See, one of his friends invited him to the Thursday midnight showing at the local theater and he went.

He didn't get it. Didn't care. Thought it was cheesy and predictable.

And maybe it was. But me? I'll miss Harry and friends. I rather enjoyed myself.

Seven Days

2011-07-18T04:16:00.003-05:00

So, if you're checking the blog today...thanks for sticking with me. Some of you know that I purchased, cleaned, painted, and moved into my "new normal" house last week. It was, and I am not exaggerating here, the single most stressful, exhausting time in my life (and yes, I'm counting those early nights when baby Reed REFUSED to sleep).

Thankfully, I had a lot of help (I have some pretty awesome friends). Some were more helpful than others, but all pitched in one way or another - and I couldn't have done it without them. Five rooms were painted - nay, TRANSFORMED, an entire room was built, and many floors were scrubbed.

And we won't even talk about the FLOOD in my basement.

Instead, today will be a happy post. A sharing post. Before and after photos.

THEN we'll get down and dirty.

The front of my charming little house.

I have a decent backyard for being in the boro.

Just about every room in the house was either dark brown or forest green - including the living room. It took a lot of work to cover it up and coat it with a new color. But, oh the difference.

I chose to paint the fireplace wall a deep chocolate brown and the other walls a sunny yellow.

I choose not to paint the dining room yet. In fact, I like the deep red and tan colors the previous owners chose. The holes were patched and the floors cleaned and furniture moved in (they used it as a storage room!). It's a nice little dining room.

The bathroom was painted slate gray, which isn't a bad color, but for a small bathroom in a house built in the 1940s, it just seems small. I thought a nice, mediterranean blue would really open up the room and make it homey. Plus, a shower curtain with red poppies - it's adorable!

Next up? The house only has three bedrooms, so Griffin had a room built for him in the basement. It ran hot and cold in terms of his enthusiasm, but now that it's done, he's pretty happy. Of course, I have to walk him to the scary basement every night, but hey, he's fifteen, so I'll take anything he's giving me.

Plus, he got SUPER excited when Reed and I talked about turning it into an Eric Foreman style hang-out (minus the weed). Next up? Buying a terrible used couch.

He parks his bike outside his room. Sweet.

He made a diorama with both Star Wars and Pokemon figures. It's a thing of art.
Oh, the wall behind the bed will be teal...in a week.

Tatum's room had been the nursery when the previous owner's lived here. They had painted a horrible aqua blue wave (?) around the room (including the closet door). Oh, and they painted the ceiling and ALL OF THE TRIM a sad, depressed gray color.

Tatum picked her own scheme and accessories. I think it looks adorable.

Plus, my self-proclaimed lazy daughter was a HUGE help when it came to painting and cleaning and surprise hugs. I couldn't have managed without her. She was amazing.

I LOVE the red wall. I think it is such a POP against the creamy color of the other three walls.

The cool cork/chalk board is something made years ago from a repurposed old window. It's super cool.

Reed's room had been an office. Like most other rooms, it was a pukey greenish brown. He wanted white. A white room. And black EVERYTHING else. When I accused him of not participating, of not acting like my house was his house, too, he reminded me that he had wanted his room at his dad's house to be white but I had insisted he pick a color (he picked gray). So, I relented. And it actually looks pretty cool.

"Mom, can I write an eleven on my air conditioner?"

Is there any answer other than, "Hell, yes?"

The master bedroom had been meticulously taped and painted - IN ALTERNATING GREEN STRIPES. It was awful. They had hot glued room darkening curtains directly to the wall. I just couldn't stand it. So, I painted the trim white and the walls a pale lilac color.

Now it looks like this. I like it lots.

Like the dining room, the kitchen didn't need more than touching up. It's a cool burnt orange color. We patched holes and cleaned it up, and that's enough for now.

Let's not all hold hands and sign hymns...there's plenty to break down in tears about, but THIS, this part? I'm pretty proud of what my friends and I did in a week. A whole new house that looks just like me and my kids.

It's my home.

Ross, Rachael, Monica, Joey, and Phoebe

2011-07-08T04:21:00.018-05:00

I spent a good bit of time yesterday crying. Just bawling my eyes out. I felt so alone.

At one point, I locked myself in my bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub and sobbed. Like, really sobbed. Took my glasses off and let the tears roll from my cheeks and splash on my legs. I kept saying (quietly, so as not to freak my kids out), "I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this. I just don't." And I secretly hoped that I would wake up and everything would be fine.

Then, half an hour later, I went to settle on my house. (Yeah, I didn't wake up...it was real.)

My eyes, already read and swollen from my EYE DISEASE, were twice as bad. I seriously looked like (a younger, fitter) Mike Tyson got a hold of me. But what was I going to do?

Afterwards, I went to pick Tatum up. Intrepid young lady, she was anxious - ANXIOUS - to get to the house to WORK. (Remember? She's a self-described lazy person.) So, I put on a brave face, packed some supplies in the van, called to my daughter, and headed to MY house.

I had about as much gumption as I do when I have to go to the dentist. DRAG ME TO HELL.

We pulled up out front, and there, on the door handle of MY house, was a gift bag. Inside was a card addressed to me. Tatum was curious and excited - WHAT could it be? We took it off the handle and moved it inside. Inside MY house. We struggled with the lock - can anyone open a new lock easily the first time? - and let ourselves in.

Just so you know up front, the house was a relative disaster. Dusty, dirty, gross. I was worried about letting Tatum see it because then she might not want to stay with me.

I bit back tears.

THEN, because she was begging, I opened up the card in the gift bag. I figured it was from my realtor but was pleasantly surprised to find it was from a friend.

Yes. While I was at home crying my eyes out, she took time from her day to drive over and put a gift on my doorstep. And days prior to that, she had gone shopping and picked out items especially for me. To warm my house. I was overcome.

So, once again, I began crying. But this time it was different. This time it was because I felt overwhelmed that while I can't do this alone - I won't have to.

When I think I am going to curl up in a ball on the couch and sob, someone who loves me pushes me back up onto my feet and keeps me moving. Even when I don't want to. Even when I can't see value in it. They don't let me.

Now. Now, I didn't read the card right away because as soon as I opened it and saw the amount of writing inside, I knew it was one of THOSE cards, and I saved it for later. (And I relished it when I did pull it out.)

That card, those little tokens of good housekeeping, were enough to motivate me to scrub a bathroom that SERIOUSLY had not been cleaned in a decade. My mom happily cleaned every single surface in the kitchen. Tatum swiffered and dusted and mopped and spackeled determined NOT to let the dust get to her, but to conquer the dust herself.

And, as the afternoon turned toward dinner and I started to feel down all over again, MY doorbell rang.

It was another friend. She was driving through MY neighborhood and she wanted to stop and say hello to me at MY hosue. She gave me a hug, made sure I was OK, and arranged for a time to come by to help paint.

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't want to do this alone. I'm scared and lonely and worried and sad.

But the really cool thing is that I don't have to do it alone. I have the best friends. They WANT to take care of me. They want me to feel good and be successful.

So, when I don't think I can do it, they will remind me that I can.

And that makes me feel pretty lucky.

Let's not be rash: Part Deux

2011-07-06T04:18:00.022-05:00

actual unretouched photo of my eyeball and eyelid
and self-esteem destroying eye condition

Woke up Tuesday morning IN A PANIC.

OK, you guys. Remember the rash I had? The one that was of SUCH A CONCERN TO THE DERMATOLOGIST that I was able to schedule an appointment for August 23rd?

Yeah. THAT rash.

I went to bed on the 4th after a lovely day spent with friends and family. Great food, funny low-budget fireworks with ridiculously joyous children, and a mini-MSCL marathon.

BUT.

But I knew something wasn't right when I went to bed. Prior to going to bed, my eyelids felt like they were BURNING ON FIRE. In true ~~martyr~~ mother fashion, I said nothing to those who supposedly love me. Instead, I went to bed. My hands were cold (they're always cold), so I feel asleep with my frigid hands resting on my hot eyelids.

And I said what we all say, "It'll be fine in the morning. Just need to get some sleep."

Nope.

I woke up and realized instantly that something was wrong. My eyelids felt heavy. My vision seemed blurrier than normal. My skin was BURNING ON FIRE.

I peeked into the mirror and saw the lovely image that you see above - red, swollen eyes. My left one was almost swollen completely shut. The skin was bright red and puffy. Scaly. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that my eyelid was filled with fluid. It wasn't so much that the skin around my eyes was swollen, but that my eyelids had taken on a life of their own. And they weren't taking any prisoners.

I looked like Gisele Bundchen. (And THAT'S how comedy is done.)

Luckily, the doctor's office was open when I called at 7:30am. Luckily, it was the day after a holiday weekend, so they had kept multiple open time slots. Luckily, they could see me at 8:40am.

My BFF (Remember her? Jenni? From yesterday?) asked if I wanted a ride. (New normal now...don't have a significant other to drive me places when my eyes are swollen shut.) Alas, I took a shower, the swelling had reduced a bit, and I felt confident that I could make it across town with only minimal damage to the world at large.

Step aside, groundhog. Sherry's comin' through.

Claritin.

I'm not kidding you guys: Claritin.

I described in vivid and often painful detail my month long struggle with THE RASH. I described its various incarnations, the symptoms, my attempts to treat it...Claritin. "That'll be $30 and stop at Rite Aid to get some Claritin."

Dude? Seriously? Like I realize McDonald's coffee cups now have a warning on them that reminds the consumer that "Hot coffee may be hot" and we can't be all alarmist or anything...BUT FIX IT! FIX IT! FIX. IT.

Guess what?

I have to see what happens with the Claritin. Like BE PATIENT and WAIT. If there is no significant improvement by Thursday, I can call on Friday and he'll give me a prescription of something stronger. Hopefully something I can OD on.

Meanwhile, I can't do ANYTHING. I mean, I can...but then people will SEE me. So, my scaly, puffy eyes (AKA self-esteem destroyers) and I are currently curled up in a ball in the corner wallowing.

Larry Crowne (Movie Review)

2011-07-05T04:24:00.001-05:00

A friend and I made plans to see a movie the afternoon of the 4th.* And while this is scandalous - I'm supposed to be barefoot in the kitchen - NEW NORMAL - I prepped the food for my tiny picnic and went to a movie at noon.

*(OK, really it was my BFF, Jenni, and she got all "OMG. You didn't even say it was me" when she read the blog - SO IT WAS JENNI. I SAW THE MOVIE WITH JENNI. SHE'S MY BFF. - Is that better?!)

Larry Crowne.

I'm not sure if I need to defend this act. I don't know if it pulls my coolness down any notches, but I think you know by now that I'm game for any movie.

And it looked like it might be one of those yanked back from the depths of sadness and depression into HAPPINESS that I need right about now.

Larry Crowne was, in fact, sort of a bummer.

Don't get me wrong, it was a pull himself up by the bootstraps kinda of movie, but the plot was horrible with gaps like the Grand Canyon sprinkled throughout.

Larry Crowne (Tom Hanks) is a smiling, happy guy working at a Target-style store, complete with red shirts and khaki pants. Regularly named Employee of the Month, when Larry is called to the community break area, he's sure it will be award number ten. Instead, the company is downsizing, and it seems that since Larry went straight from a twenty year stint in the Navy to U-Mart, skipping college in between, he's gotta go.

Deeply rooted in the recession, Larry owes more on his house than it's worth, he decides to enroll in the local community college. Once there, Larry becomes part of a group of outcasts and misfits...who aren't nearly as charming as those found on NBC Thursday nights led by Joel McHale.

At school, Larry meets a charming young lass who anoints him Lance Corona and invites him to join her scooter gang. She also helps him with his style, his feng shui, and his mojo.

Why does he need mojo? His public speaking class is taught by Mercy Tainot (Julia Roberts), an attractive if bitter, angry drunk. And somehow, he's attracted to her. Hence the need for some mojo.

It's a likable movie. I mean, it's Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts, so what's not to like, right?

Ugh. I had such high hopes for a cute summer movie written by Tom Hanks and Nia Vardalos. Except that there are some very basic problems. Let's start with Julia Roberts. She's a completely unlikable shrew. She's angry and mean, she hates her job, she hates her students, she hates her husband...and the audience is supposed to like her. So, you give her the benefit of the doubt. You wait patiently for the time when her character ungoes the GREAT CHANGE. But it never happens. There's a short scene where she cleans out her apartment IN JEANS instead of her normal business attire...so, yeah, she's TOTALLY different now.

So, while Hanks plays a mamby-pamby wuss, Roberts doesn't do much better.

I didn't hate it, but it was only worth my free pass.

Civil, Cordial, Agreeing, Polite, Right Nice

2011-06-29T04:15:00.002-05:00

I have always LOVED the word Ticonderoga. I also am completely enamored by the way Schenectady feels in your mouth. (Go ahead, say it --- good, right?)

Conversely, I have always hated the name Bruce. And the word goiter.

There isn't some vast and all encompassing explanation for why I can't say or hear some words enough or why I wish some would be banished from the language entirely. It's not like I ever lived in New York or have any affiliation with the pencils preferred by standardized testing companies the world over (although I LOVE a fresh Ticonderoga as much as a new box of Crayolas). And I never dated a jerk named Bruce. Nor do I have first hand experience with goiters.

It's not personal.

However.

However, recently I have come to abhor a new word. And this time there is reason attached to it. This time it is personal. Wanna hear it? Of course you do.

Amicable.

I'd like to take amicable and shove a stick so far up it's ass you can see it when it hollers.

am·i·ca·ble

[am-i-kuh-buhl] –adjective

characterized by or showing goodwill; friendly; peaceable: anamicable settlement.

As in, "So, you and JC...your divorce is amicable?"

First of all, who are you, why are you asking, and how long do you really want to invest in this discussion?

That's what I thought. Sit the f*ck down and mind your own business.

Here's the thing: we are AMICABLE.

There is no chair throwing, very little yelling (and that was waaaaaay back in the beginning - yanno - TWO months ago), and few disagreements about how to settle things. Money. Kids. Houses. Possessions.

Part of this is because I have never been one to enjoy a good confrontation (people keep telling me I'm missing out), and part of it is because we are adults with three children who I am not interested in traumatizing.

So AMICABLE.

But you know what? Screw amicable.

It's a friggen divorce, people. It sucks. No matter what. Even if we get along and make decisions together and smile for the cameras, it's divorce. Even in the best of circumstances, it's divorce. And that is not amicable.

Sorry amicable. You're dead to me.

Yes, I am ranting.

2011-06-28T04:18:00.043-05:00

In my school district, part of the 2nd grade curriculum is to learn about the community. Not just the people in our community, like police officers, grocery clerks, doctors, and bank tellers, but how you, as a citizen, interact with the community. The unit starts big, with discussions of our town as a whole, and whittles down to understanding your role in that bigger picture. And, as a culminating activity, those innocent little seven year olds create posters. A simple piece of white paper with a line drawn down the center, these kids write in their half-legible print: "WANTS" and "NEEDS," one on each side of the line. Then, below the word, they write and draw pictures of both things they want (a PS3, a kitten, a cell phone, a TV for their bedroom, a million dollars) and things they need (water, food, house, mommy). It's cute and funny and A TOTAL LIE by the time they reach 5th grade (and beyond).

Please.

Recently my family went to the movies to see Super 8. Excited about the film, we opted NOT to go on opening night because we anticipated that it would be crowded, and said crowd would be talking, and so the movie experience (all $45 of it, sans treats) would be less enjoyable.

Turns out that going on Sunday evening isn't much better.

So, I tolerated THEM as they talked and texted during the commercials. I mean, who really cares about whatever gum or soda the theater agreed to hawk? And, even though I love previews, I managed to bite my tongue and grit my teeth as THEY continued to talk and text because I was sure that when the movie began it would be all out of THEIR systems, and THEY would be engrossed in what I knew would be a fantastic film.

THEY, of course, were a group of teenagers seated a few rows behind us.

Just before the movie started, the theater showed one of those clever DON'T TEXT OR TALK during the movie ads. I think it was the Ryan Gosling/Rachel McAdams dub from The Notebook.

NO ONE WAS WATCHING. At least not any of the people to whom it was aimed.

I'm talking about THEM.

The movie begins and THEY continue to talk. And, I don't mean like one of those annoying whispery voices that you can ALMOST tune out as you concentrate on Kyle Chandler's face. I mean THEY were talking at a conver-fucking-sational level. Like, "This is sooooo stupid." And, "What did that guy just say?"

Uh, you don't know what he said BECAUSE YOU WON'T SHUT UP.

Oh, and let's not forget that one of THEM got a phone call during the first ten minutes of the movie - which HE answered and then proceeded to converse with the person on the other line for several minutes. AT A CONVERSATIONAL LEVEL. And the person who called was either on speaker or was SHOUTING because I could hear both sides of the fascinating story.

And, for the record, when he said, "I'm at the movies," it wasn't a hint that now wasn't a good time to talk, but more like a topic they could discuss. AT A CONVERSATIONAL LEVEL.

You could also see the glow from their phones as they texted during the movie. In a darkened theater, it isn't hard to detect.

About this time, an employee of the theater came through to do a "check." Now, having never been employed by a theater, I can only guess what the guidebooks list as your responsibilities once the movie has begun and you are to do a sweep.

(What follows is my interpretation of what the newly employed read in the guidebook of theater employee responsibilities.)

Section 12, Subsection B Subsubsection 6.8 of the Regal Theater Guidebook for Employees:
SWEEP OF THE THEATER - Enter theater. Walk directly to the front. Make sure your red flashlight/light saber is turned to the "on" position. At a quick pace, walk across the front of the theater. Hightail it out of there before you can be accosted. Do not speak to anyone. Do not look for actual problems. Do not help theater goers. If you see someone texting, ignore it. If you see someone talking, do nothing. Avoid confrontation. You are merely a presence to demonstrate our fake commitment to a pleasant movie watching experience. In the unfortunate event that you ARE stopped by a patron, you will be docked pay.

I mean, come on. It MUST say that. Because those pimply 17 year old kids are not looking to DO anything.

So, in accordance with the Sherry Mann guidebook of attending a movie, I waited until my head was about to explode (ten minutes in), when I turned around and said to THEM, in my best mom/teacher hybrid voice, "You guys seriously need to SHUT UP. We can't hear the movie and you are super annoying."

I thought I heard a little applause, but I was probably just dreaming.

And trust me, I really had to give this one some thought because all three of my kids were with me and I certainly didn't want to embarrass them. But, they too were sighing heavily, so I figured it was time.

And THEY did shut up. I think I scared the shit out of THEM.

When we left, we ran into THEM in the lobby. My kids recognized THEM as "a group of 8th graders" (a grade in which I had no children, so, whew). And I recognized one as a student from MY school who was in the other 5th grade class. I didn't like him and his entitled butt then, and he sure didn't earn any points that night.

At home I logged onto FB and checked his profile. As suspected, he posted status updates throughout the movie. "This movie sucks," kind of stuff.

Sadly, "Bitchy woman just yelled at me," didn't make the cut.

So, how does this relate to the cute little second graders clutching thick Ticonderoga number 2s in their grimy little hands?

Somewhere between making that poster and becoming a 5th grader, they change. While they may realize that food and water are necessities still, that cell phone casually drifts from WANT to NEED.

Look, it is a simple rule of etiquette that you DON'T TALK in a theater.

Yet, even old ladies do this. When I went to see Eat Pray Love (What the hell is wrong with me in the first place, going to see this piece of schlock?), a group of those red hat purple freakin' sweaters (or WHATEVER) women were in the row in front of me. I'm guessing they were either hard of hearing or don't get out of the house much because the only other choice is that they were flat out RUDE. They talked ABOUT the movie WHILE it was playing. They talked about their pre-movie festivities at Appleby's. They talked about the upcoming bridge tournament. That's okey dokey in your living room, grandma, but not at my theater.

Other things you don't do in a theater: Dump popcorn on your neighbor's head. Shoot the paper from the end of a straw at the guy across the theater. Wave a gun around and threaten people. Pee on the seats.

THAT sort of thing.

BUT THEY DON'T MAKE CUTE LITTLE SNIPPETS ABOUT THESE THINGS TO SHOW BEFORE A MOVIE STARTS because people just KNOW BETTER. (And, mostly they do.)

I recently read a few articles concerning the issue of blocking cell phone signals in movie theaters. I'm all for it. I mean, really, with the cost of seeing a movie in a theater going up uP UP, you should be afforded a few simply courtesies - like NOT having to tell punk ass fourteen year olds to unplug themselves from their devices.

The argument against jamming cell phone signals in a theater? Emergencies.

WTF?

What emergency is so big, so important that you HAVE TO KNOW RIGHT NOW?

When I was a kid, (here we go) we didn't even have cell phones. (And, YES, I walked up hill to school - BOTH ways in wool clothing, even in summer.) So, NOT ONLY could my mom NOT reach me when I was at a movie, I actually had to wait until I got ALL THE WAY BACK TO MY HOUSE for her to speak to me. And, if I wanted my friends to know that the movie sucked, I had to wait a day, sometimes a WEEK before I could tell them.

And I survived.

Look, I love my iPhone. It's cute and fun and does neat things. And, I check my email or text BEFORE the movie starts. But once it starts, I put it on silent, tuck it in my bag, and don't take it out until the damn thing is over.

I guess this is part of the reason why I find teaching to be such a battle. Don't get me wrong, you guys know I love my job. And my kids.

But more and more I have to spend a good chunk of my teaching time helping them with things like HOW TO BE GOOD PEOPLE. Just the basics before we can move to double digit division.

Like, DON'T USE YOUR CELL PHONE DURING A MOVIE.

Who knew?

2011-06-27T04:19:00.005-05:00

Over the weekend, while JC and Reed were far away in the land of Texas, (Reed was busy being awesome, in case you aren't my FB friend), Tatum and I worked on a project.

Part of the "property" that I am taking to my new house is a pair of adirondack chairs. Badly in need of paint pair of adirondack chairs. Tatum set her mind to painting these chairs a few weeks ago. She wanted to be in charge. She wanted to pick out colors. She wanted to DO IT.

As a self-described lazy person, I knew she would require supervision, guidance, and a gentle hand leading the way. And, since I had nothing better to do (read: nothing I wanted to do - packing is bittersweet), we set out to accomplish this goal.

Being Sherry and Tatum, we didn't plan ahead. My daughter may not look so much like me, but she gets many qualities from me. Including that annoying one where she doesn't always plan ahead (I'm planning ahead to get better at this, though, as I am going to be on my own soon).

Had we been THINKING, PLANNING, HAVING FORETHOUGHT, we would have taken a photo of the chairs prior to taking them apart. We did not.

We removed screws. We removed pegs. We broke a piece or two (nothing important, natch). I sanded the pieces (remember: she's lazy), she scrubbed them, and then we laid out a drop cloth, did a light coat of primer, and started painting. My lovely daughter chose spray paint instead of paint in a can (remember: she's lazy), which quickly proved not to be the best choice. Coverage was spotty, bugs were sticking to it, and she was terrible at applying it. She was all about "how fast can we get this done" and "how much can I spray in ten seconds" instead of, "let's make these look great so we don't have to redo them next summer."

Needless to say, I took over the spray painting duties. It took all day. And an extra trip to Walmart for more supplies.

When one chair was completely finished, all shiny and brand new looking (or as close as we could get it), I turned to my daughter.

me: "We can try to put this together tonight, or we can wait for dad to come back."
me: (in my head) Pick dad. This is not going to go well.
Tatum: "We can do it. You and me. Let's do it."

What she lacks in motivation, she surely makes up for in gumption.

Plus, I'm pretty sure she needed to prove to both herself and me that we can do things without dad. That we (I) will soon HAVE to do things without dad, MANLY things, and that we were capable. And not just capable, but qualified.

She obviously doesn't realize I am a visual learner - I learn and retain best when someone shows me.

Lucky for me, she learns by doing.

And boy did she DO.

I will admit (just once) that I PROBABLY went into the reconstruction with a poor attitude. The bugs were really bad. She was banging the pieces together which was threatening to scrape the paint. The dog kept running after neighbors.

And it looked HARD you guys.

But Tatum was determined. Twice, after screwing two pieces together and then having to take them apart immediately to put on a piece we forgot, I asked if we could just call it a night. It was nearing 8:45pm and my best hours were behind me.

She got mad. She didn't want me to quit. She was sure she ALMOST HAD IT.

Guess what? She did.

There were a few "told you so" moments, which I let slide, because, in fact, she did tell me so.

And on Sunday, we did it all over again.

So, as those boxes and boxes of IKEA furniture stare me in the face, taunting and defying me with their complex instructions and Swedish ways, I stand tall and say, "HA! I have Tatum Mann on my side, you measly boxes. Try and stop HER!"

Let's not be rash

2011-06-21T04:19:00.001-05:00

Just before school ended, a rash developed on my face.

Attractive.

Mostly hidden behind my glasses, I tried to ignore it because, frankly I WAS GOING THROUGH A FEW PERSONAL THINGS. And I figured, "How long will this last?"

Seventeen days and counting, apparently. That's how long. Seventeen days and counting.

Once school was over, and I completed the required three days of inservice, the two days to "work" in my room, and one day of staff training in the building, I decided to research the malady online to see if I could cure myself.

Meanwhile, it got worse. The skin on my left eyelid began to flake off and it was bright red. And the little "wells" under my eyes, where woman of a certain age get dark circles? Mine were bright red, too, and flaky.

I mean, I was one hot mama.

Stress related? What? Me...stressed?

Looking online I found that there were others with the same concern - AND THEY WEREN'T DYING - who offered ideas for treating the rash yourself. Since I was becoming increasingly embarrassed about going out in public, I decided to try a few remedies until I figured out if my insurance would cover a visit to a dermatologist.

Vaseline on the flaky areas at night. Tea bags. Warm compresses. Cold compresses. Cucumber slices. Johnson's Baby Shampoo as cleanser.

The Vaseline seemed to be helping, it was covering up the flakes and sort of rehydrating the area - plus it made my eyelids SHINY. The baby shampoo seems to be helping to reduce the redness.

But I was far from cured.

So I broke down and and called a dermatologist, one recommend to me by a friend.

I was encouraged. Hopeful. I mean, let's face it - I look horrible. My self-esteem is plummeting. I feel like everyone is staring at me. I can't stand taking my glasses off and having this staring back at me in the mirror.

me: "Hi, I was wondering if I could make an appointment to see the dermatologist."
receptionist: "Sure. Can you describe your concern?"
me: "Yeah. I have a rash...on my face."
receptionist: "What's the rash like? Where is it located?"
me: "Well, it started on my left eyelid, but it is now on my right eyelid as well, and has spread to underneath my eyes."
awkward silence
me: "It's bright red, so it's sort of embarrassing."
me: (in my head) I'm dying here. Of embarrassment. Please help me.
receptionist: "It seems like something we can help you with."
me: "Great."
receptionist: "Is there any time that's better for you?"
me: "Actually, I'm a teacher, so my summer is pretty wide open."
receptionist: "OK...let me see...OK, our first opening is August 23 at 2:15pm."
me: "August 23rd?"
receptionist: "Yes. Or I have something on the 25th."
me: "Ummm..."

It ended with lots of awkward silence as I was busy looking around my kitchen for the hidden camera set up to film my reaction to SUCH A RIDICULOUS SUGGESTION.

Are you kidding me? Two months from now? It's a mother f$@cking rash! If I still have it in two months, I'm pretty sure I'll have become an agoraphobic.

Guess I'll stick to the home cures. Anyone want to weigh in?

Christmas in June

2011-06-20T04:02:00.001-05:00

It's summer vacation around these parts, which means lots of sun, swimming, humidity, and BOREDOM.

Sigh.

Particularly with my youngest. Thirteen is just a terrible age. You don't know where you fit. You're pretty sure you don't fit ANYWHERE. Oh, and your parents are getting divorced.

Yeah. Lots of moping, and this time it isn't completely unwarranted.

If there can be a positive to divorce (there can be LOTS of positives, right? RIGHT?!), it seems to have brought Tatum and I closer. We've struggled in the past, oh how we've struggled, mostly because she can be a moody son-of-a-gun (me, on the other hand, I'm pretty much perfect).

But, now, with summer surrounding us, we're stuck in the same house basically staring at each other, so, we might as well make the most of it. Yanno, picnics, long walks, TALKING ABOUT THE NEW NORMAL.

I happen to be moving out in a few short weeks (sorta with my kids - at least half of the time), so why not spend some of our quality time packing up, too?

And it's not easy, let me tell you. It's not easy to face the whole of your life tucked in closets, stashed in bags, filling boxes - and know that you have to separate out your half to take with you when you go.

Tatum has been preoccupied with worry about JC. I think this is mostly due to the fact that she sees me as the person who takes care of things and therefore she's worried about him. But I think she's also worried about what her life with him will look like. I spend a lot of time reassuring her that it will be fine, but like all things in life, it is easier when you actually experience things for yourself - then you can see that it is fine. That you'll survive. That you might even be OK. Happy.

She's particularly worried about Christmas. What will it be like? Who will she be with? Who will buy me presents (bless her heart)? Where will she wake up? Where will she eat Christmas dinner?

I can't answer any of those questions with certainty. Look, I can barely figure out next Tuesday.

But, one thing I could do was separate the STUFF. And, believe it or not, she wanted to help do it.

So, we spread dozens and dozens of ornaments out on the floor, twenty-two years worth, and, while I packed up books, she carefully selected what she wanted each of us to have. She evenly divided those made by her brothers and herself in elementary school, the ones accumulated on vacations, the ones that were gifts...all of them. She would occasionally ask if one was important to me or her dad, sometimes I would see a sad look on her face, sometimes she made a silly joke. But she did it.

And somehow, for whatever reason, it made her feel a little bit better.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Super 8 (Movie Review)

2011-06-14T04:14:00.032-05:00

In what I regard to be the highest compliment to J.J. Abrams, Super 8 is reminiscent of a Steven Spielberg film from my childhood.

More than once, as I watched our heroes bike across the screen, through a throughly 70s suburban neighborhood, I was looking for Henry Thomas and hoping for Peter Coyote.

Set in a small town in Ohio, Charles is the teenage mastermind behind the zombie film he has written, and is dead set on filming, with the help of his friends. He's got Martin as his prone to vomiting leading man, Cary as the zombie and explosives expert, Preston as the dumbstruck fill-in, and Joe (an absolutely fantastic Joel Courtney) as the nice guy make-up artist.

Nevermind that Joe's mom died a few months ago and his father is ill-equipped to function as a parent. Charles wants to get that film made and enter it into the film fest!

Needing an emotional punch to his zombie tale, Charles asks Alice (Elle Fanning, a more emotive version of her sister), the older, pretty girl in town to play the part of the wife. She agrees and late that night, the group heads to the old train station to film. Only, while trying to commit the scene to the film in the Super 8 camera they're operating, a pick up truck drives onto the tracks, in front of the moving train, causing a massive crash, which the film crew accidentally sees and even more accidentally commits to film.

The train belongs to the US Air Force. Within hours, crazy things start happening around town: the dogs disappear, the power flickers, people vanish, and metal objects are attracted to the tippy top of the water tower. And the Air Force isn't talking.

There's something loose in Ohio.

Joe's dad, the town deputy (Kyle Chandler) knows something is afoot and he's not satisfied to wait for the government to handle it. And when Alice goes missing, the boys aren't about to sit and wait for someone to save her. They'll do it themselves, thank you very much (Mr. Spielberg).

This has got to be the best movie coming out this summer. With comic book heroes, sequels, and animated fare filling the multiplex, this is a singular story that is both nostalgic and new, reminiscent and sweet. It's filled with the joy of summer (oh, how I wished I was a ten year old girl riding bikes alongside our boys - and I could have been - I would have been ten when this movie was set). What it does that so many stories no longer do is TELL A BEAUTIFUL STORY.

And I mean that with all due respect. This is a monster movie at its core, but it is also filled with parent/child relationships, chemistry between friends, grief, discovery, innocence, and redemption.

Listen, to watch the boys have a conversation like all boys do? It's so well done, so uninhibited and natural that you won't think it's a script - you'll think you're eavesdropping. And you'll miss so much if you aren't listening closely.

This is a smart and funny movie. I admire this movie and what Mr. Abrams did.

If I were to complain at all, it would be that Abrams does a fantastic job of keeping the alien hidden, only glimpses are showing shadows and reflections - until you see him in all his Predator/District 9 glory. For a movie set in the 70s, the alien feels too much like NOW. I don't know, I guess I wanted him to feel a little more E.T.

However, if you haven't seen this movie, what are you waiting for? It's one I'd pay to see again.

Wanna go with me?

It's about to get all real up in here.

2011-06-13T04:37:00.013-05:00

Saturday night I dropped Griffin off at a party and drove myself over to TJ Maxx, 'cause I'm a Maxxinista and all.

I wandered around. Not really planning on spending money, more like needing to get out of the house. I flipped through the tops, peeked at the dresses, strolled through housewares.

I picked things up and put them down.

And then I went out to my car and cried uncontrollably for about twenty minutes.

I know. You're shocked.

"But you're so cool, Sherry."
"You're so awesome and in control, Sher.
"You're a rock."

Saturday night I was a mess. I just was.

Needing support, I picked up my phone and texted my four closest friends.

It was almost an hour before I heard from any of them. And why not? It was Saturday night. None of them are getting divorced. None of them are sitting in their VW Rabbit in the parking lot of a popular shopping establishment sobbing like a baby. None of them are pathetic gobs of goo.

Right about now you'll be wanting me to explain the tears.

There are a million reasons for tears, but I guess it comes down to the fact that I was overwhelmed on Saturday. It was JC's birthday. It was the first time in twenty-two years that I didn't bake him a cake, buy him a present, or give him a card. Instead I got a ton of bricks dropped on my head.

It was the first of many firsts. Or lasts. (Either way, it couldn't be more depressing.)

But, wait! Act now and you get extra heartache.

It was very important to Tatum that I be part of her dad's celebration. She ASKED me to be part of it. So, I helped her get a present. I helped her bake a cake. I went to lunch with everyone.

I put on a smile until I couldn't smile anymore.

That's when I cried.

And I started cursing my new normal: Stupid tiny little house. Stupid basement bedroom for Griffin that I can't even find a contractor to build. Stupid new couch. Stupid lack of garage. Stupid window air conditioners. Stupid previous owners who made a mess of the paint. STUPID MAKING-DO.

I spend a good deal of my time making sure my kids are OK. And I don't begrudge them that at all. I mean, that's my job. The divorce isn't something they want, it was thrust upon them, so it is my responsibility to make sure they are as OK as possible.

So I bake cakes and smile.

Until I cry at TJ Maxx.

Just about when I thought I wouldn't be able to make it through the night, my friends started texting me. I was back at home by now, hiding in my bedroom or the kitchen so as not to have my red eyes come under the scrutiny of my children.

Anyway, my friends. My wonderful, loving, saying-the-right-things friends (even if they were a little late). They commiserated, kicked my ass, made me laugh, offered me a glimpse of the future, and, in the case of Michelle, pretty much lied outright in an effort to make me feel better.

And it did. Kinda. As better as I can feel right about now.

And by the time this publishes on Monday, I will most likely be absolutely fine.

But not tonight. Tonight it's all real up in here.

If a tree falls in the forest...

2011-06-10T04:21:00.009-05:00

So, I have this super cool friend who is a trailblazer in the world of self-publishing - well, my own personal trailblazer.

Shout out to the big K - Karl!

Years ago, Karl and I met by accident over there at Critique Circle, an online gathering place for writers. You can critique the writing of other people for credits, and when you earn enough credits, you can post your writing, which others will then offer their opinions about.

It is a fascinating, eclectic place. There are earnest, Twilight copying teens, serious elderly guys writing about The Big One, there are talented writers like Karl writing middle grade fiction, and there was me.

Karl read my stuff by accident. That's how it works on that site. You click on a link you think might be interesting, and if you don't cringe within the first three sentences, you read the whole thing, offer up some line by line suggestions, and submit the darn thing for the writer to see.

And Karl read the heck out of my stuff. He gave me great critiques - thoughtful, insightful, more than just, "That was good. Good luck!"

All in all, he (and many others) read and offered suggestions on over 500 pages of my stuff - two books in toto.

Then Karl, who I keep in touch with weekly via email (crazy technology), told me he was going to self-publish one of his books - the one I can't wait to read aloud to my class of 5th graders. He sends me updates - formatting, preparing the manuscript, cover freakin' art.

And I start wanting it.

My books has been read by a few friends, but recently, my daughter read it. It's targeted to her, after all, since I tend to write YA novels. And...she liked it. OK, she hates that the male main character has a buzz cut ("Mom, no guy looks good with a buzz cut!") and she was a little annoyed by the cadence of speech of the female main character...but she liked it. And she thinks people would read it.

Cooler yet? She wants to design the cover art and has an idea based on something I wrote.

So, if a tree falls in a forest and they make paper out of the carcass then they print my book on it, would you be interested in reading it?

The Joy of Chalk: Cuatro

2011-06-08T04:45:00.001-05:00

It's been so popular in the past that I had to repeat it this year: Chalkboard lovin'.

When I show my new recruits photos of the chalkboard from the previous year on the first day in my classroom alllllll the way back in August, they can hardly wait to get to that last day in June so that they can fill the board with private jokes, cute pictures, and heartfelt goodbyes.

Until they actually have to do it. Then they tell me they can't believe the year is over and can't I please fail them so they can stay with me for another year?

If only I could.

It's right about this time that the 4th graders start getting chummy with me on the playground. Asking me questions, sitting next to me in the cafeteria, finding excuses to bring things to my classroom. Scoping out the prospective teacher.

As sad as I am to see my kids go, I am always proud to send them forward. Not just because of the academics we covered but because I truly feel like I raise them, too. Not to take credit away from their parents, but I raise them as much to be good people as I do to be life long learners.

They like it in my classroom, and that isn't bragging. It's a home, a place to feel safe, a fabulous 177 days. Hell, you'd like it, too.

And I love my kids. (I think they love me.)

The left.

The right.

From my favorite kid. (Yes, I have favorites...but I share the love, I promise.)

There's the plea to be failed. See? I wasn't kidding.

Ditto.

This one is from a boy who worked his butt off to make incredible academic gains this year. I was just happy to be there to facilitate his drive. What a great kid.

Yes. I nicknamed this one Sunshine because he made everyday bright and shiny.

And she'll be going back to France. BUT, I got an offer to stay with her should I find myself in Europe...and she promised to return someday to my doorstep.

New normal now has a start date.

2011-06-07T04:20:00.007-05:00

In what might best be described as the most bittersweet moment in my recent career in the new normal, I am now the owner of a house.

All by my big girl self.

There's this weird disconnect in my brain where I often still think that my dad should do things for me. And if my dad isn't available, then JC should do it.

Of course, I am no longer twelve years old, and I am no longer half of a couple. So I have to do things for ME. Turns out I'm not completely useless.

I mean, I still ask for OPINIONS and I'm not above asking for help from anyone who is within earshot and who appears to have ever made a good decision in his or her lifetime. Other people do that, right?

So, anyway, last week I put on my big girl pants, gathered up some documents and went to the bank to apply for a mortgage. WITHOUT MY DAD.

Funny thing is, the bank agreed to lend me money. Me. A public school teacher. A woman with questionable financial habits. A divorced single mother.

And what did I do with the crazy pre-approval letter? I took it and waved it around in front of the owners of a home that I wanted AND THEY SOLD IT TO ME.

Something is clearly wrong with the world.

Of course, I joke and jest and make light but it's bittersweet, right? I mean, NEW NORMAL and all. The new normal has become all too real with this development.

Seems I will be settling on my new house on July 7th.

I guess I'll share a bit about my house with you...since you asked. Built in 1940, it is a brick ranch house about two blocks from the high school. It's a great house for many reasons: it's updated to the hilt - new roof, new kitchen, new bathroom, refinished hardwood floors, new deck, new electric, PLUS it has tons of charm with arched doorways, a tray ceiling in the living room, a working fireplace, and a tree lined yard.

Of course, it isn't without it's downfalls - three bedrooms, a damp basement, one bathroom, and no garage.

Honestly, it may be small, it may not be where I thought I'd spending the next ten (twenty? thirty?) years of my life...but since I have to, I'm happy it's in this house.

But don't get me started on the house number. 557? Not a good number people. Not a good number.

We'll just cross our fingers and move forward.

It's the end of the blog as we know it...

2011-05-31T04:10:00.023-05:00

My blogging of late, as you may have noticed, has been like a Dalmatian - spotty. Thing is, I either don't have the energy to write, or I begin to write and censor myself so I delete it because I'm not about to curtail what I say, or I don't have anything nice to say, so like somebody's mother once said, I don't write anything at all.

See, I'm pretty proud of my little blog. I started it back in 2006, jealous because JC had one and I didn't, and dammit, I was the writer. So I started writing...and writing...and writing. I didn't always know what I wanted to write about - sometimes I wrote about political situations, sometimes about celebrities, but mostly about my family.

And no one has to tell me that while there are still a bunch of dumbasses running for president, still a bunch of dumbasses making too much money AND bad choices, my family is being redefined.

I don't write about that because it's too close. Too personal. Too big. Or maybe too little.

Yeah, I know I've written detailed posts about my vagina, but you guys know THIS isn't the same.

And I don't want to commit anything to the internet that I don't want hanging around for the next millenium.

I've thought about starting a new blog. Opening up shop at another URL. Keeping this one for posterity but starting fresh in that awesome "new normal" I'm trying to sell everyone (including myself) on.

And I've though about quitting the blog entirely. I mean, let's be honest...the whole thing is a bit self-serving. I know I sound like I'm full of myself quite a bit - oh look at me...aren't I hilarious and irreverent and witty? And so maybe with the changes occurring in my everyday life, the end of blogging is a natural step.

I just don't know.

As the school year winds down - another week and a half until I say goodbye to what could potentially be my favorite class so far - I will be facing many changes. My kids will be facing changes they didn't ask for.

And so I have to decide where blogging fits.

So, as Michael Stipe once wrote (and then sang) It's the end of the (blog) world as we know it...and I feel fine. (You do, Sherry. You DO feel fine.)

Bridesmaids (Movie Review)

2011-05-24T04:01:00.062-05:00

What's the best thing about Bridesmaids?

Girls taking the lead in a Hangover style comedy that has heart?
The dynamic duo of Kristin Wiig and Maya Rudolph?
Drunken behavior on an airplane?
The butch-tastic Melissa McCarthy?
The best/worst vomit/diarrhea scene ever?

Nope.

Had to be the return to relevancy for Wilson Phillips.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When her best friend (Maya Rudolph) announces she's getting married, it's up to her maid of honor and life long bestie, Annie (Kristin Wiig), to put aside her loneliness and lack of funding to get this party started. Only problem is that Lillian is marrying above their current social standing, and therefore the bachelorette party, the bridesmaids dresses, and the bridal shower have to WOW.

Annie is not about WOW.

Annie is down on her luck. Her foray into small business ownership, the adorably named Cake Baby bakery, has gone under, leaving her destitute and rooming with an odd brother and sister pair of Brits. Her current lover, an uppity, well-to-do businessman (John Hamm) laughs when she suggests he take her out in public - she's only his number three after all. And she gets pulled over by a cop (the lovely Chris O'Dowd from IT Crowd) who thinks she's drunk.

Then there's Helen (Rose Burne). Helen offers up the country club as the setting for the engagement party. Then she makes a beautiful toast, leaving Annie in the dust (and in a fit comedic brilliance/discomfort the two try to outdo each other until the tension is unbearable). Then she offers to fly Lillian to Paris for a wedding dress. Then she buys puppies as favors for the bridal shower. Then she...well, you get the picture. Helen worms her way in between Annie and Lillian until it makes Annie burst.

Meanwhile, Annie picks a place for a bridal luncheon that offers meat on a stick with a side of "the scoots" (as my (ex) mother-in-law likes to call it). Annie gets drunk and causes uproar in first class. Annie makes a scene at the bridal shower. Annie...well, you get the picture.

Not comfortable admitting defeat or even trying to dig herself out of the pit into which she has fallen, Annie only makes an effort to make her life WORSE.

After a meet-cute date with the very policeman who pulled her over, she sabotages their date to make sure her misery remains nice and, well, IN TACT.

The wedding is going to go on with or without Annie...and she decides it should be without. So she curls up on her mother's couch and wallows.

And then things happen, there's some white doves, a pouffy dress, WILSON PHILLIPS...

But that's not all this movie has to offer.

While Kristin Wiig, who seems to have become one-note on SNL, is wholly unlikeable as Annie, and should be...yet you feel sympathetic for her loser in life girl of the moment. Plus, how many movies are able to accurately portray the relationship between two grown women who are complicated and interesting?

Plus, it's funny (and raunchy) as hell.

You'll love it. I did.

What if you sh*t your pants in front of your class? What then?

2011-05-17T04:13:00.018-05:00

student: "Is that throw up* on your shirt?"

Luckily, no. It wasn't throw up. But this question from a concerned (or grossed out) kid in my class sadly did not come out of left field.

*It was actually water the had dripped off my face after I rinsed the throw up out of my mouth.

Around 11:00am on Monday I was suddenly overcome by nausea (that's a hard word to spell, by the way). Standing in front of my Social Studies class, which is divided in half by the Mason Dixon line (some Confederate soldiers, some Union soldiers), I was instantaneously drenched in sweat. I could feel my face turning red. My hands were shaking. My stomach had somehow left my body and taken a ride on the SooperDooperLooper. I was going to be sick.

But what was I gonna do? I was alone with 25 kids (and two trashcans) with no help in sight for at least the next fifteen minutes when recess might offer me a quick respite and a trip to the bathroom...which was perilously located at the other end of the building.

So, I started bargaining with my body. And considering leaving my class so that I did not erupt (from either end) in front of them.

me (in my head): If you can just get through the first part of the lesson, just hold it together, hand out the hard tack, and then give them their journal assignment, you could possibly slip out of the room while they are writing and rush on over to the bank of toilets in the C hallway. You can do it, old girl. I have faith in you.

This, almost as soon as I offered it to my body, was summarily refused as my stomach audibly churned.

student: "What was that?"

That, my dear friend, is the sound of whatever I ate for breakfast making its way back out to say HELLO.

Shit, shit, shit. That was all I could think. And, apparently, what I was about to do in my pants.

I panicked. I froze. I did what no teacher is EVER supposed to do.

me: "I have to go to the bathroom. I'm about to be sick. Please write in your journals. Don't hurt each other. Stay in the room. I'll be back..."

And I left my class unattended.

For about 89 seconds.

Luckily I ran into an instructional assistant in the hallway and told her (no, I did not ask, I told) to go to my classroom for me so that I could go make peace with the porcelain that awaited me.

I made it just in time. I heaved a whole bowl of partially digested Cinnamon Life Cereal into a toilet located so close to the ground that there was a little splash back. Yum!

I was just glad it didn't come out the other end, which had been my biggest fear when I was standing in front of a group of loving if unforgiving ten year olds. And when I say "glad it didn't come out the other end" I mean WHILE I WAS STILL IN MY CLASSROOM WITH MY KIDS.

I visited the nurse for a cold compress and some saltines, a little water to rinse out my mouth. She wasn't even fazed. Which left me wondering: Does this happen all of the time?

Then I went about my day as if nothing had happened. 'Cause what else was I supposed to do?

The house

2011-05-16T04:16:00.001-05:00

There is nothing worse than getting a house ready to sell.

(OK, I lied. There are TONS of things worse than that, like having your eyes gouged out by a hypodermic needle, being hit by a bus on a city street, PSSAs...)

But, yeah. Fixing up a house to sell it. Not fun.

Here's how it goes: You scour the market for a house that fits your hopes and dreams of the great American life. You dicker and counter-offer, you cross your fingers, you plan and scheme. You buy it! Of course your dream house is not perfect. There are things to be done. Simple things like painting the walls of seventeen rooms and scrubbing the mildew off the bathroom walls. And bigger things (bathrooms need to be gutted). More expensive things (kitchen needs to be redone). Annoying things (the cellar door needs to be scraped and painted). Things you put off because no one in her right mind wants to do THAT (assembling a scaffolding to the wall by the staircase so that you can paint a two story wall).

But you are sooooo happy. It has a big yard. Space. A pool.

And then you have to sell. It can be due to job relocation. Money woes. Change of scenery. Empty-nest. Divorce. (Remember, whisper that last one.)

The realtor comes over to have a look. To come up with a fair price. To tell you the market sucks. To make suggestions of things you should do to make it more saleable.

This is like standing naked in front of your family doctor for an examination.

You've made peace with your body. You know you have a little extra around the middle, but it's not THAT much extra. You know you should have that mole looked at, but it hasn't changed THAT much. You know you were supposed to wear sunscreen, but you aren't THAT tan.

But when the doctor walks in the room and you are about to be poked and prodded, you suddenly see yourself through new eyes. You're easily twenty pounds overweight. That mole is huge and has uneven edges. You DIDN'T WEAR SUNSCREEN.

And you know what he's going to say. And it's no fun.

Same deal with the realtor. The house you loved with its awesome natural light and quirky features suddenly looks like a piece of unfinished crap. The bathrooms are dated. The carpet is covered in stains. The exterior needs SOMETHING to help create curb appeal. And WHAT WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU PICKED THAT COLOR OF PAINT?

This is where things diverge from the doctor metaphor. Because if you don't take care of your body, you will most likely die sooner than you had hoped. And it will be more painful than old age. There are no band-aids for your health other than to stop the bleeding. Fix it.

With the house, it's all about band-aids. Put a throw rug over THAT. Scrub the black STUFF off of that. Cover that with a coat of paint. You don't sink any money into something you need to get rid of.

All the dreams you had about putting in a new kitchen with window seating, a new gas range, and a bar for your kids to sit at while you cook suddenly turn into, "Well, the kitchen is going to be a problem. The flooring is terrible, the stovetop is too low, and there is no magic triangle for your appliances."

I know! I know! And I was going to fix it... Stop judging me, realtor lady.

Over the course of two weeks, we did just about everything on the realtor's list to make the house more appealing to potential buyers. Scrubbing, painting, cleaning, mopping, vacuuming.

But you don't replace the peach toilet with a shiny new white one that boasts that it uses less water per flush because you don't throw good money into something you are tossing. Have we learned NOTHING from Tom Hanks and Shelly Long? (OK, not the same situation, but a learning opportunity just the same.)

It's hard. It's hard to watch your house being judged. It's hard to slap a few band-aids onto something you had thought you would take all the way through cosmetic surgery.

It's just hard. Hard, I tell you.

Thor (Movie Review)

2011-05-10T04:36:00.000-05:00

Comic book movies shouldn't take themselves too seriously.

Take Iron Man, for example. Robert Downey Jr. as an incorrible whizkid playboy who is both completely preposterous and yet genuinely believable and familiar. He's over the top and under the gun and ridiculously enjoyable to watch.

Here's what I thought I knew about Thor going into the movie: he's based on Norse legend, he is a strapping young man with a gigantic ego, and he carrys a big hammer.

Oh, but Thor is so much more.

With a complicated backstory that involves icy guys from another realm, a father with two very different sons, and the Bifrost bridge...this thing could have gotten lost in lore.

But this script was put together in a way that cleverly mixes the otherworldly stuff with funny, cute, and witty scenes in modern day New Mexico.

See, Natalie Portman's Jane Foster is a scientist studying wormholes in the desert. Tagging along for fun are her trusty right hand man, Stellan Skarsgard, and a snarky Kat Dennings. While zigzagging through the dark of night in search of some aurora or other, our gang is sucked into a swirling cloud of...superhero.

Thor. The mighty Thor.

Let's pause for a moment and admire the sweet goodness of a man who played Thor, Chris Hemsworth. Previously known as Captain Kirk's father, his biceps deserve a credit of their own.

Thor is a fish out of water, delivering some of the funniest (if cheesy) lines when he was on Earth. "I need sustenance!" (OK, maybe you had to be there.)

There's a plot...the evil brother, the sick father, the boy who has been banished from the kingdom. Then Thor learns a lesson in selflessness, falls in love with a mere Earthling, is welcomed back to the kingdom where he must save his enemies from untoward cruelty by destroying the very connection to his true love.

Sigh.

It's fun and funny. And a great Mother's Day evening spent with your kids.

p.s. EVEN if your kids have to go to the bathroom, EVEN if they are starving, stay for the bonus scene after the credits...and then leave me a comment telling me what it was all about.