bad mom

beach bag bingo

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 15:16:00 +0000

Because I am an obsessive collector, organizer and seasonally-aware decorator, I am a keeper of bags. Bags - in their various forms such as totes, purses, packs, carriers, and eco-friendly grocery sacks - offer me a way to take the things I want/need/obsess about wherever I go but in a neat & practical [and seasonally appropriate] manner. Whenever there is a free or inexpensive bag available, I snatch it immediately because I know I will find a use for it in my world.

So imagine my delight when Bob from Personalized Tote Bags contacted me with the offer of a free bag in exchange for my blog post. [THIS IS WHERE I TELL YOU I DID GET SOMETHING aka my fabulous free Bad Mom beach bag FOR WRITING THIS POST] Imagine no more - here are words & photos describing my delight.

I call this a beach bag, even though I rarely visit the actual beach, because it looks all jauntily nautical with the weathered stripes, rope handle, and immense volume capable of holding multiple towels, water bottles, sunscreens, snacks, books, sand toys and snorkeling gear. I used it yesterday for a simple trip to the zoo and though I equipped it for myself and two kids, I didn't even come close to loading it. I kept thinking I should throw in a few jackets in case we developed a chill during the 95 degree day, because the bag still had so much room and felt sturdy enough to pack more stuff in. (Note the metal grommets around those sassy rope handles).

Next time I might hide a neighbor kid in here to save on entrance fees.
P.S. Zipper top! Excellent for discouraging pickpockets in crowded places.
And for being certain none of my 1.2 million necessities falls out.

I particularly love that this bag is cut with curves so I don't look like I'm carrying a gigantic rectangle, and the straps are long enough to put over my shoulder and still hold the bag above my waist. It's like the Personalized Tote Bags people know how real women want to look and feel when toting stuff around. (Bob did not tell me to say that. In fact, he didn't even tell me I had to write a nice post; he just sent me the bag and said "Please link to us").

I was hoping for a more renegade font for Bad Mom but a) it was free and b) the cursive does soften the sentiment; maybe Bob was afraid people would think I really am bad. That's sweet.

This particular bag - Stylish Beach Tote - retails for $27.99 (monogram included), which I think is a decent deal considering its size and sturdiness. Also, the bottom is flat so easy to set down without discombobulating all the contents. I have to say I don't love that it is made in China and I (the practical organizing queen) could use a few more pockets inside, but otherwise everything else about the bag is better than I expected. I am considering the Stylish Laptop Bag in their clearance section; apparently I am all about Stylish this summer.

I recommend a visit to Personalized Tote Bags if you're in the market for, you know, a personalized tote bag. There is something for everyone, even the not-crazy/obsessive collectors/organizers.

(Thanks, Bob!)

camptacular

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 22:09:00 +0000

I did, indeed, go camping yet again despite my vehement assertion that

I just read this brilliantly descriptive post at Practice of Madness about her recent venture into the wilderness. Interestingly, she experienced many things I have during a camping trip - getting lost, driving where most vehicles shouldn't be driving, being cold, feeling fury at the love of one's life - yet she was remarkably positive in her retelling. Generally, I take the martyr route when recounting my tales of being in ~~Hell~~ the woods. There is just so much this princess cannot take about such an outing.

Right after school was out this summer, Stu & I packed the kids plus a friend for each (to keep them company if/when we had to send them away from camp for bickering) into my Multi-Activity Vehicle [notminivan], which was equipped with a storage box on top and a trailer behind. If I am to give up precious summer vacation time to getting dirty and stinky and missing True Blood, I will have pillows and chairs and books and decent dishes and lots of good food & drinks.

We drove 3 1/2 hours southeast to a place that I was under the impression gets warm in the middle of June as it is called "High Desert." Well. I left 60 degree overcast weather so I guess 70 degrees was an improvement but I was glad I brought layers. Of course that didn't mean I refrained from complaining about the chilly evening, followed by complaining about the campfire smoke burning my eyes when I tried to sit five inches from the flames. Pretty starry skies what?

My joys in camping mainly come from watching people I love enjoying camping - the kids relish the freedom of riding their bikes around the campground with walkie-talkies; Stu feels all manly and capable collecting wood, starting & maintaining the fire, and cooking meals. (He once felt all manly and capable setting up the tent but I long ago squashed that quaint tradition by requesting a cabin or yurt at the campsite).

What do I do on this 'vacation'? I do my best to not bitch incessantly about the situation, I keep our supplies tidy & organized, I read a lot [I try to appreciate the Being in Nature thing by reading outside], and I take pictures. And if I'm allowed to be a truly bad mom, I will write blog entries or post updates & photos on Facebook.

We have one more excursion planned for this summer (because I so love my family! And hope this earns me points toward more momcentric trips to places where I don't have to sleep near dirt and get to shower daily), and I will try to look harder at the bright side like the author at Practice of Madness.

Stay tuned for notes from Cape Disappointment.

tilt

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 19:01:00 +0000

everything feels wrong.
our world
has tipped off its axis.
we push and pull in opposite directions,
forgetting we're on the same side.

what we thought was real
exploded
what we knew was real
disappeared
our guides have been taken away,
and it's hard to think
with our hearts torn out.

I would pull our world back
singlehandedly
but I'd rather do it
with you.

for the man I cherish,
on the occasion of my most recent mental breakdown

not a stalker, exhibit 43

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 18:58:00 +0000

just wanted to say

i think you're really awesome

(hit send or delete?)

this haiku based on actual incidents

of vegas and bunions

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 00:14:00 +0000

In the past ten days, I have lived two wildly different lives.

Jetsetter

Stu & I stayed here, in a junior suite (our first regular-people room smelled strongly of smoke, and because I did not do a Lindsay-style rant when I brought it to their attention we were rewarded). I took this picture from ghostbar, where supposedly fabulous people hang out inside for $400 per table. We hung out outside for free, standing.

Before heading up to this hot spot, we joined friends for dinner at N9ne downstairs. With our cocktails, onion ring appetizer, and Mediterranean salad & Oscar filet mignon entrees, the bill was something along the lines of a portion of our children's college savings so far. But that is how we gamble - on food, which turned out sublime; I find that far more satisfying than dropping cash into slot machines or onto card tables where I am only guaranteed a watered-down drink and visions of life in a cramped apartment with Nicolas Cage.

Later we went to Rain where, as you can see, NO DRUGS OR NUDITY were allowed. Just in case we forgot. Our common sense.

I stood in line while Stu ran up to our room to drop off souvenirs from our evening at Crazy Horse Paris (which I have been wanting to see for years - we tried to get tickets in Singapore and when we were actually in Paris but no go. We shared our tiny stageside table with the darling groom-to-be Dirk and his friend Dustin from Boise, who I believe were impressed that people as old and married as we could be funny and even kind of interesting). During my brief-but-felt-like-eternal wait on the Rain line, I met the implausibly named [and coiffed] Demarius. He began our interaction with "That is a very unique tattoo" breathed on my neck in his Antonio Banderas accent. I managed to maintain a respectable conversation despite such diversions as "I am sure your students have crushes on you" and "You are a very hot mom" and the capper, "So...You do not so much party as you just have a cocktail or some wine?" After five hours of my dodging innuendo, Stu reappeared and jokingly asked Demarius if I was bothering him. Then we escaped into the mania of the nightclub. It was 2 a.m.

Bubbles were the most innocuous part of the entertainment. There were flames above our heads, bungee acrobats and a suspended ribbon dancer, go-go waifs gyrating on platforms, and performance artists sending sparks over the dance floor by grinding on each other's metal outfits. Like with an actual grinding tool.

Couchsitter

Last week, I had my second bunion removed and have been spending most of my hot mom life sleeping or perusing trashy magazines. Like the first time, surgery went fine despite my high anxiety, and recovery is going alright despite my OCD. Luckily I have a husband & friends who understand my insane way of asking for help, which is to not ask, and just do stuff for me. Even the crazy stuff, like helping me into regular clothes though it doesn't make sense at 7 p.m., or setting up my vast reading station though I'm just going to fall asleep within five minutes of sitting down.

To shake things up Vegas-style, I did have some exciting drama Thursday when I passed out in the morning and threw up twice, prompting a 6-hour ER stay to determine the cause. But alas, the SW Washington ER is not nearly as thrilling as the George Clooney TV version; no one there looked remotely like precious Carter, nobody rushed in bleeding or cursing or shooting up the place, not a bit of dramatic music played during any of my myriad tests. However, on the positive side, I was not diagnosed with a rare & mysterious illness - just plain old low blood sugar/low blood pressure + stupidity on my part.

Though I am not [yet] back to drinking raspberry lemon drops by the gallon or dancing under fire until 3 a.m., I have brazenly worn my tight Merlotte's t-shirt to Blockbuster and chatted extensively with my secret boyfriend. WILD.

I know.

please continue to hold, and thank you for your patience

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 18:39:00 +0000

sorry for neglect

school, camping, Vegas, bunion

stay tuned for these posts

behind my steely reserve

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 19:01:00 +0000

Yesterday we held our graduation ceremony and for the third year, I had the privilege of reading the graduates' names as they crossed the stage. It is the perfect task for me because a) my OCD is highly valued as I belabor exactly how to pronounce each syllable correctly and b) I cherish that moment when I meet each kid's eyes and smile, and c) it is a position where I am not in line to hug them. And I only say this because while I understand the importance of showing emotions, I am desperately afraid of being out of control once mine start peeking out. People who know me well appreciate that I am not an indiscriminate hugger. I only do it when I truly feel inspired, kind of like when I only ask how someone is doing if I really care. If a student initiates a hug I am happy to reciprocate, but I have to steel myself against crying because I know once it starts it won't stop for a long uncomfortable time. Which would ruin my whole reading-names gig, and then I'd cry about that too. So I like standing at the side of the stage, out of graduates' line of sight, where I can beam at them as they walk past but stay composed for the next name.

Yesterday, the young Anakin graduated with his class. Teachers are not supposed to have favorites, and really I wouldn't call this kid a "favorite" in the dictionary definition of the word; some days my head throbbed after merely trying to greet him, sometimes I was grateful he was absent, often I just nodded my head and refused to argue with him. But in the grand arena of my teaching career, I'm not looking for favorites. I am most fulfilled by overcoming challenges, building relationships, illuminating new paths even if I can't make kids walk them. This boy challenged me almost hourly during the last three years I've known him (every few minutes when he was in one of my classes). But he begrudgingly allowed me to keep trying to build a relationship, he occasionally seemed to listen when I offered suggestions. And he hugged me before he walked off the stage yesterday. (I did not fall apart. On the outside)

The hardest part of teaching, for me, is not coming up with engaging lessons or managing the classroom or even dealing with difficult behavior. The hardest part is letting go of our students, not knowing what they're doing for six hours each day, and hoping they believe we love them and are available whenever they need us.

loss

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 07:00:00 +0000

one week of sadness

another student and my

father-in-law ~ gone

make stuff happen

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 07:00:00 +0000

Coupeville, WA
photo by me, 2009

sometimes we do things -

impressive, monumental

things. but not always.

now like then

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 07:00:00 +0000

When I was growing up, I remember wanting to be four things: a mom, a teacher, a psychologist, and an advertising copywriter.

I see my little self taking care of our beloved wiry, ratty terrier Elly May, though "taking care of" meant to me running around with in the weeds, letting her tug on and tear tiny holes in my jacket sleeves, and inspiring her to howl on our trailer porch while I played my shrill recorder at 1000 decibels. When she was hit by a car [not on my watch, for the record], my (s)mothering attentions turned to my baby sister whom I doted on until she was old enough to open the door to my room and mess with my books & records.

I recall the numerous times I set up a classroom of stuffed animals & dolls - everyone in neat rows facing my propped-up garage sale chalkboard - and carefully called roll, pausing to wait for imaginary responses. My grandpa gave me old ledgers from his wrecking yard business that I used for recording class lists and assignments; my uncle gave me old worksheets from his teaching days that I kept in a briefcase and 'corrected' with a red pencil. When my younger cousin was around and later when my sister was old enough, I volunteered them to be my real-live students. We (I) loved every minute of playing School.

I envision my serious face as I studied stacks of teen-girl magazines, applying my rudimentary understanding of subliminal messages and reverse psychology and propaganda tactics. I was determined to resist the pull of Popular Fashion, at least in the sense that I would not be consumed by it; I attempted edgy style with fake military medals on my denim jacket, I bought EPs of The Cult and The Smiths, and I joined Amnesty International. Though I still secretly wanted Normandy Rose jeans, leather Nikes, and hair that could hold a decent curl, if only for just one day.

I revisit the solid certainty I felt in my whole 19-year-old being as I solemnly watched thirtysomething every week, vowing I would become one of those smart, hip adults with smart, hip friends and a smart, hip career. I would design advertisements with a conscience, I would lead people to make intelligent choices, I would change the world for the better. I would be real.

And now, I am a mother not of a wily canine but of two wondrous children; occasionally I run through weeds with them and let them rip things for fun; I've also been known to lock them out of my room, but they do have their own books to mess with.

Now I set up desks in not-so-straight (yet always orderly) rows and real students make up my class lists, but I never use red pencils. I (we) love most minutes of School.

Now I am pretty confident in my analysis of advertising, even when I succumb to its nefarious ploys and buy things I know I don't need. Yet I am never too proud to find my fashions & furnishings at garage sales and thrift stores, in fact I am a zealot about recycling, reusing, and repurposing. My life is nothing if not conscientious; I am all about changing the world for the better whenever I can. Which leads to my final youthful aspiration - to be smart and hip, with smart, hip friends and a smart, hip career.

Done, done, and done, if I do say so myself.

And I feel real.

freedom friday

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Fri, 28 May 2010 16:11:00 +0000

1. Wine (can we call that food?) and deviled eggs -- the best food to take on a picnic.

2. Summer is only a handful of days away!

3. My toes just say no to flip flops.

4. To love someone is blissfully frightening. Or frighteningly blissful?

5. No more plans for a long hike.

6. When I crave food, it's usually something involving bread & cheese.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to vats of True Blood, tomorrow my plans include date night at Cirque Dreams, and Sunday I want to delight in a gathering of friends.

Fabulous Friday Fill-Ins

out & about

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 26 May 2010 03:19:00 +0000

How I spent my rainy weekend.

This free photo slideshow created with Smilebox

sigh

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 26 May 2010 01:09:00 +0000

In the words of my teenage students, Epic Fail.

I was *soclose* to posting every day this month; I still had a few amusing (to me) titles playing on the sound of the word 'may.'

Oh well.

I was so outrageously exhausted Saturday after my first day of walking around Portland (taking a class on Art & Architecture to complete my teaching certificate maintenance), I was incapable of lifting my body to attempt typing after dinner. Not to mention the only coherent thoughts running through my mind were "Must. sleep. So. sleepy. Sleep now."

Ditto Day 2.

I was out for 18 hours (8 a.m. - 5 p.m. each day) and walked 12.2 miles. In my rainboots and hastily-purchased-Friday-afternoon-for-$12.99-at-Goodwill unattractive-but-functional [I found out after 17 hours of downpour] raincoat.

The class was fun, despite the rain, and highly informative & interesting [slideshow coming soon]. I am hoping to use what I learned for teaching a Pacific NW history elective but in the meantime, I am planning to not move any of my muscles unnecessarily for a few more days.

may showers, good stuff & wet stuff

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Fri, 21 May 2010 07:00:00 +0000

1. The impending weekend never fails to make me smile.

2. I'm looking forward to moving in to my new classroom!

3. Stereomood is what I'm listening to right now.

4. Potato salad must have haiku-ju-ju in it!

5. Crackers & Irish cheese was the best thing I ate today.

6. Today was a blessed challenge, like all the others.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to the elementary school talent show, tomorrow my plans include a walking tour of Portland in the fricking rain, and Sunday I want to walk around Portland in the fricking rain some more, then sleep for 12 hours or so.

Friday Fill-ins just feel fine

maybe you missed...

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Fri, 21 May 2010 01:22:00 +0000

I got a little behind the other day and I'm a little uninspired today and now I'm totally fulfilling the Writing Expert's prophecy of daily posting = Bullshit but whatever.

Please feel free to read Tuesday's post and remark as inspired.

Thank you for your support.

mania

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 19 May 2010 15:22:00 +0000

Sometimes a mile wide
other days only an inch
Damn fickle ego

malevolence

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Tue, 18 May 2010 14:55:00 +0000

Though I was once told by a so-called [self-appointed] Writing Expert that posting everyday is "Bullshit," I want to do it anyway. This is for yesterday; pretend you saw it then.

I entered midterm grades for my classes last night. Sometimes grading makes me feel grouchy - it can remind me of poorly designed and/or executed lessons, it can make me indignant about superbly designed and/or executed lessons that many students ignored or missed, it makes me want to tear my hair out about kids who choose to skip class [either physically or mentally] but mostly the grouchy comes from feeling sad & helpless about the kids who are at the mercy of their checked-out, hostile, and overall dysfunctional families. While I am a firmish believer that people can make their own choices and rise above nonsense in their lives, it is also clear that so many of our students - still children - have not been taught how to do that and when we try, it is scary and takes them a long time to get comfortable doing it. And once they get comfortable, someone might decide to sabotage those efforts.

When I enter grades - the failing ones and the succeeding ones - I am faced with the fact that too many parents just don't care about their children. The alert calls & e-mails are met with hostility toward me (Why can't I teach the kid? What do I expect them to do?), indifference, promises to punish, or silence. And when making the 'happy calls' letting them know how improved or plain brilliant their kids are, I'm crushed by those who are dubious and cynical and dismissive.

Nothing I do every day feels like bullshit, and I hate when someone tries to prove me wrong.

male call

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Tue, 18 May 2010 04:31:00 +0000

Since everyone's clear on how much I love my actual husband, and we're all aware of my obsessive-compulsive behavior about collecting Potential Second Husbands and/or Fantasy Flings, I offer an addendum to my previous lists.

New darlings on my radar, for your pleasure:

The precious Sharlto Copley
Newbie actor who blew me away with District 9,
now taking on the freaktastic role of Murdock in the new A-Team movie

Beyond precious Matthew Goode
Has somehow escaped my attention until Leap Year,
which was shamelessly predictable & manipulative yet irresistible

Not much satisfies like a sexy funny guy,
a la Seth Meyers of SNL

And my latest ridiculous crush, local musician Robin Jackson
Not only talented but a hottie sweetheart in person and so far completely unfazed by my stalking

Please, do share your latest finds in the male box...

maintenance

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Mon, 17 May 2010 03:13:00 +0000

I am the worst kind of woman, according to Harry - high maintenance who thinks she's low maintenance. But really, I have been aware of this since first seeing the movie when I was 21 and just starting to officially date The Man Who Would Become My Husband, so does that let me off the hook some? I have a metacognition thing going on with myself - I sit down resolutely to do exactly what essential task I need to do and realize I should have tea. Which means I should clean the kitchen while water boils. Which means I should sweep while the tea steeps. Which leads me to realize we need a new broom. So I make a list of all the new things we need before I race off to Target, wait no, Goodwill first. Where I take a few minutes to "just look around" for some items that would be great for my classroom. Then I remember the essential task I need to finish, at home, and head back to get it done. But first, I should get dinner started (and luckily the kitchen is already clean)...

This Man Who Became My Husband knows that I must:

Smell everything before I taste it
Taste (therefore smell) anything he plans to eat or drink
Insist he has a jacket when we go out
Plan extensively, even if we don't actually end up doing anything I planned
Use certain dishes for certain foods
Have popcorn at the movie theater, even if I've just eaten a fulfilling meal minutes before
Drink my Pepsi from a glass, with ice (preferably crushed)
Wrap presents, even if they'll be opened within moments
Sort laundry and load the dishwasher in a particular way
Read while I brush my teeth
Match undergarments, shoes, and glasses with outfits
Stop at most garage sales
Obsess over various secret boyfriends, for fun

And I love him so.

marry me

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Sat, 15 May 2010 07:00:00 +0000

"...his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

~ James Joyce, from Ulysses

_______________________

Happy 17th anniversary to the one who still makes me swoon...and Stu, too.

lovelovelove you

xoxox

making merry

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Fri, 14 May 2010 07:00:00 +0000

1. I just had a grand 160 days of teaching.

2. What is, is.

3. The third sentence on the 7th page of the book I'm reading: "After putting down the telephone the eighty-two-year-old birthday boy sat for a long time looking at the pretty but meaningless flower whose name he did not yet know." [The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo]

4. A night out with my man tickles my fancy.

5. I was walking for a purpose, not for exercise.

6. The earnestness of teenagers makes me laugh (but in a kind & loving way)!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to Wild Night #1 of anniversary celebration, tomorrow my plans include Wild Night #2 of anniversary celebration, and Sunday I want to rest.

Visit the merry merry Friday Fill-Ins page!

mea culpa

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Thu, 13 May 2010 07:00:00 +0000

So I got excited about my generous man's offer to buy me a new laptop last week, even though I do have a soft spot for my ancient bestickered one, and it has been holding up fine despite its age. But then I was thrust to wits' end by the incessant, mind-numbing arguing between my husband and our preteen son; in a fit of desperation mixed with righteousness, I announced that ALL I wanted for Mother's Day was for the two of them to find a sensible way to stop the insanity. The middle school boy was properly ~~terrified of his crazy mother~~ chagrined, the grown-up boy took my offering of Love & Logic CDs, and I felt mostly better though a little melancholic for the laptop that might have been.

Now, I have found the perfect place to put any new stickers that won't fit on the old laptop - my fabulous garage sale rolling cart. And now, my dinosaur has started blinking intermittenly while the speakers, just as I've discovered the musical goodness of STEREOmood, are suddenly scratchy. All after I dramatically protested buying the shiny Mocha Digital Plaid beauty. But, I suppose if the father-son bickering is quelled, it's a reasonable trade.

Maybe I can have it for my birthday?

may flowers

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 12 May 2010 07:01:00 +0000

bouquet for the one

who birthed beautiful children

good for man's karma

[thank you, darling husband]

mail call

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Wed, 12 May 2010 00:58:00 +0000

I find few things in ordinary life more disappointing than a mailbox full of nothing worthwhile. It's worse than an empty mailbox, frankly - at least then I can pretend the mail has not yet come, or the postal workers fell behind and didn't get my stuff together in time for the truck today.

This afternoon there was a small promising pile of letters in my box that I pulled out expectantly, but by the time I crossed the street to my house it was clear not a single item was remotely useful or even interesting (sometimes I get a Nordstrom catalog full of crazy things like $395 lime green watches but at least I can use that for a collage, or short fiction about insane people). Everything today was so uninspiring that I cannot even come up with amusing ways to make fun for this post.

I think my need for Mail of Substance comes from my childhood. When I was growing up ~~in the boonies~~ on Whidbey Island, our mailbox was at the end of a winding gravel driveway and across the road, so checking the mail was something of a production - shoes were required for sure, usually a jacket because we were only a mile from chilly Puget Sound, sometimes gloves. If I got out there and found nothing or worse, it felt like wasted energy. (Maybe my anti-exercise stance started here, too). Sometimes I was surprised & sated with a glimpse of rabbits or deer hiding in the woods behind the mailbox or a family of nervous quail skittering across the road, but usually I sullenly kicked rocks all the way back to the house with my handful of boring bills.

One would think that with this kind of outlook, I would be better at sending cards & letters to brighten other people's mailboxes. I wish. As my OCD has worsened, I get stuck at the start - I find something perfect for someone but then don't have an address or I need different stationery or must find time to decorate the envelope/box just right or need to buy stamps or have to go the post office or...ack.

A resolution for the summer: Set up a simple, accessible, no-obsessing-allowed mailing station and plan a weekly trip to the post office so I can/will send fun, worthwhile notes & parcels to my favorite people. That could be you; watch your mailbox.

make mine moody

thebadmom@live.com (stephanie (bad mom)) — Tue, 11 May 2010 03:31:00 +0000

I am, unfortunately, serious when I say that my premenopausal? Sorry, Jenn! mood swings are intensifying. The end of the school year often does this to me - summer so close yet so far, stir crazy underclassmen, seniors who no longer feel the need to learn things and/or follow rules - and I am also in the midst of recertification, which requires a head-pounding amount of organization & paperwork. And I wish the rain would stop finally, for the love of God; even a native Pacific Northwesterner like me is done with the gray for awhile.

So I have joyously discovered a new plaything [a sure sign that I have a million more important things to do, of course]:

At STEREOmood you can pick an emotion or activity and they will generate a playlist of appropriate songs. I love the variety and, unlike some other random music websites, it displays what songs are coming next and you can create your own playlists from what they've chosen. I am suddenly far hipper after just 30 minutes of listening to homework.

Rock on.

P.S. I have not been compensated in any way for this endorsement. I'm just a satisfied listener.