bad mom

just. let. love. be.

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 05:27:00 +0000

I got wrapped up in a "conversation" with a misguided friend of a verysmart friend on Facebook this afternoon. Wrapped up meaning I stupidly kept my FB page open on my phone, docked by the radio as I drove home from errands and so pulled over TWICE to respond. I felt compelled to respond because it seemed the poster was so ill-informed that my well-informed input would reboot his brain and life could go on rationally. I was wrong.

My verysmart friend had posted a link to remarks made by Dr. Ben Carson about the supposed slippery slope of granting marriage rights to gay couples : the viewpoint that allowing same-sex marriage means potentially having to allow other 'lifestyles' the same. 'Lifestyles' such as pedophilia and bestiality. Okay. How ludicrous is this? Seemed an easy correction - homosexuality & marriage of consenting adults of age are legal; molestation & bestiality are not.

But things became wackier when I was directed to an article (by misguided) that assured me I was being a RACIST in disagreeing with Dr. Carson since he is black and I, as a white liberal, clearly could not accept his adverse opinion because of this situation. Huh?

I had to tap out before my head exploded and/or I drank myself into a place where the words that come out of my fingertips are ferociously mean, and while that can be satisfying for a minute, it is not particularly useful in ultimately persuading hearts & minds.

In the end, I just can't understand how some human beings get so defensive of their own ways that they lose basic compassion for other human beings. Especially other humans who JUST WANT TO BE WITH THE PEOPLE THEY LOVE. Gay couples are not (please correct me if I'm wrong) asking to destroy anyone else's relationship or demand we watch them have sex or make everyone appreciate Adele - they are simply seeking their Constitutional right to pursue happiness via legally recognized marriage that affords them the same benefits as heterosexual unions.

Right?

hot purse-suit

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 01:03:00 +0000

I have been obsessing for a month about getting a new purse. Part of it has to do with my inherent need to simply obsess about something and since Anthony Ervin has apparently blocked me from his Twitter account/consciousness, I need a new focus. But another part of it is that I've decided my upcoming return trip to NYC will require something far more chic than my garage sale/thrift store bags [which I took last year but nevermind coherent thought] in order for it to be THE VACATION OF A LIFETIME (please be sure you say that in a booming voice, with reverb).

In shopping days past, I would see drool-worthy purses I loved but passed them by because a) didn't feel a real need for one at the time and b) they cost more than my wedding dress, even considering 20 years of inflation. So armed with the irrational belief that heading to NYC gives me permission to now spend upwards of $500 for just the right life-changing handbag, I figured I'd spy it within an hour's jaunt through the mall, earn some Disney reward points on the smoking credit card, and drive home in a heady stupor.

Of course not. When do we EVER find just what we want when we want it upon entering the most wretched place on Earth after The Store That Shall Not Be Named? And after weeks of looking (sometimes in the same stores, on the same shelves, as if The One will magically make itself visible to my faithful heart), I am ready to go all Christian Bale crazy on the clerks. However, since my stellar work in counseling, I can let it go.

For now.

My trip is still four months away.

reentry

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 03:12:00 +0000

My counselor turned me loose a couple of weeks (16 days) ago. She said she was very impressed with how I had worked so deliberately & diligently to change the way I thought about things and talked to myself; I agreed and felt pretty proud but also had a tiny twinge of panic about giving up a regular appointment to check in. She reminded me of all the strategies I've practiced this past year that have helped me stay focused & balanced, and she asked me to plan some next steps - I thought I should get back to yoga & gym/readingonastationarybike time, and writing regularly on my blog. The yoga part has not yet rematerialized but let's get this party started again here, shall we?

It is Sensational Haiku Wednesday at my friend Jenn's You Know...that Blog? and the theme is SENSATIONAL, which is perfect because it's how I'm beginning to feel now that my brain isn't trying to suffocate me.

My gentler mind is

Making some sweet small talk with

My bruised subconscious

Now you go, here or there.

good enough

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 05:31:00 +0000

Today's mindfulness :

Dozing at the steering wheel in the dark, empty parking lot this morning, after dropping off the girl at jazz band hours before I needed to be at school. The wind shook my car, the radio droned, I was at ease.

Our counselor starting a kettle of water for tea while I finished my eye makeup in the staff bathroom, another teacher helping me look for a missing teabag holder my sister gave me, our principal chatting to help me wake up when she certainly had dozens of other things to do; thankful again for a workplace full of people who think of each other, whom I would be glad to see anytime outside of the building.

Simple stuff like devouring delicious artery-clogging hash browns with eggs, sausage, and cheese, finishing a couple loads of laundry, and taking all the Christmas ornaments off the tree and safely stowing them before the Boy Scouts pick up Saturday morning. Now getting into bed early with some historical fiction while my girl examines her nail polish collection at my side.

sound & fury

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 06:18:00 +0000

Living this day of my life:

Spent lunch time in my classroom with a former student preparing to leave for college this weekend. He tried hard to look all "I've got it handled" while his pacing said "I'm nervous," then when we were parting he blurted out, "It's terrifying." I told him I know. And that's what makes it the best move he's ever made. [He has my cell number; we'll keep in touch.]
Spent an hour after school visiting with a couple of 2010 graduates who kept marveling at how much easier life was in high school. I did not say "duh." I was only a little bit smug. I assured them we know they couldn't help but be self-absorbed know-it-alls; they are forgiven and all is forgotten. [Sort of.]
Spent 2 1/2 hours in the corner of a cramped conference room listening to a first read-through of ~~Macbeth~~ the Scottish play by some pretty extraordinary local thespians. There were some laughs amidst the professional approach, the Lady Macbeth chilled even in this very raw rehearsal, then the previously unassuming Macduff brought a haunted reverence to the table with his anguish upon hearing of the murder of his family [oh, SPOILER ALERT for those not in the know but really, get thee to a production]. Afterward, one of the actors read a piece he had written reflecting on the value & need for theater in such sad & despairing times as we've experienced lately in our nation; it was beautiful in its intimacy and conviction, and I told him so.

I sometimes feel, as most of us do, that what I'm 'doing' in my life is of little consequence - when people are starving & hurting & killing, when cities are destroyed, when governments are indifferent, when so many things seem far more significant than a group of teenagers struggling through a poem or a play - but the simple truth is, everything matters in its own way. Everything has the power to affect change, if only in perspective. And for something to matter it needs to be noticed.

So I notice.

living out loud

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 22:11:00 +0000

Witty, pithy, significant & amazing blog posts regularly swim around one part of my brain but the lazy/OCD/preoccupiedwith2ndhusbands part refuses to sit down and actually type them out. I've tried gimmicks like assigning topics to days or following prompts yet that lazy brain is wily and finds new things to distract my attention. I'm tired of fighting me, so I've decided that I will spend some minutes each day simply reflecting on how I've lived in the previous 24 hours. The hope is that a marginally interesting thread will emerge to keep people ~~from falling asleep~~ somewhat engaged.

I'm basing this approach on the Jonathan Swift quote "May you live all the days of your life." It follows me around on a bookmark and, honestly, informs my sensibility. Our days are full of mundane little actions that could feel like "not really living;" I think it's easy to dismiss all the routine parts as meaningless filler leading up to the exciting things like holidays and parties and trips to Disneyland and visits from hot Olympic swimmers. But as I've mentioned before, I am uneasy letting moments pass by without being mindful; it feels foolish & grossly ungrateful. And, allowing myself to think of a day as 'wasted' sends me into a headache-inducing downward spiral toward depression, which is unpleasant for everyone. So I'm seeking out the life in my life, every day. You are welcome to follow along, and strongly encouraged to share your own living.

Today : Dozed till 10am in my favorite yoga pants & hand-painted t-shirt under a heavy blanket with late morning sun streaming on me and my warm-bodied 1st husband. Then, finished addressing what we're now calling "holiday letters" for friends & family while eating buttery toast and listening to Sherman Alexie on the radio. Had a brief but thoughtful chat with my 14-year old about perspective & media sensationalism. So far, 2013, so good.

You're welcome.

truths

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 20:37:00 +0000

Because there are no other good words right now...I want us to do as many loving, kind things as we can think of in the next few days. Then do some more, for a few more days. Then start over. Again, and again. Please.

**********

The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth, c. 1802

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

heroism

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 04:57:00 +0000

Every year, our Advocacy classes spend four days before winter break putting together creative & thoughtful & school-appropriate recycled art masterpieces on a particular theme to display for community members and district office workers to admire. This activity serves to keep our students' minds off the excitement (or unfortunate dread) of the impending holidays, give us all a sense of frantic camaraderie, and remind people outside our building, and some inside, how brilliant kids can be.

This year we decided on the theme of Famous Renegades, making sure whomever we chose represented our school motto: Be Kind, Be Proud, Be Fearless. Each class came up with a different idea - ours was Robin Hood, other classes went with classic historical figures (Sir Isaac Newton, Gandhi) and modern leaders (Steve Jobs, Mandela), one group crafted a bust of a vibrant classmate while another made a mobile characterizing our principal, who has led our school since developing it a decade ago. As always, we marveled at the clever divergences that serve to highlight our collective ingeniousness.

By lunchtime we had all heard the horrifying news of the elementary school shooting. There are no words to make sense of such actions; we quietly, gently went on.

At the end of the day, our principal forwarded this message from the deputy superintendant:

Mrs. Holmes,

I learned about the shooting this morning in Connecticut and was really struggling to make sense of this world. When I walked from my office to Hayes, I couldn't stop thinking about the heartache in that community. As I started to look at the art created in Hayes my spirit was rejuvenated by the community demonstrated in each of the advisory presentations. Each one was unique and captured the idea of heroism perfectly. I loved that they recognized heroes on a global level and also heroes within the walls of Hayes. Thanks to you and your staff for creating a community of hope and learning at Hayes.
Sincerely,
Jeff

If only we could spread this across the country.

let me write a thank you on my palm

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 23:47:00 +0000

Welcome Morning

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

~ Anne Sexton

I am so thankful for my place at my school, with these kids. Let me paint a thank-you on my palm...

Customize your own slideshow design

MANday Monday ~ Walking drop Dead gorgeous

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 05:25:00 +0000

Let me take care of those zombies for you.

I am a latecomer to The Walking Dead series, mainly because we are cheap cable people. But after being assigned to guard a table for two of the stars at Emerald City Comicon last year, I decided it was important that I ~~obsess about~~ take a look at it.

Jon Bernthal is the guy I met at ECCC and while supercute & very nice, I became more smitten with the charming & chivalrous Sheriff Rick in the show.

I watched an entire season before realizing Andrew Lincoln is a) British and b) the darling dude in love with his best friend's girl in the irresistibly treacly quintessential chick flick Love Actually.

Adorable, actually

Then I had to dig out my DVD to watch it again. And again. And...my 1st husband has grown weary.

As far as I can tell, Mr. Lincoln's only fault is having a ridiculously whiny onscreen wife, which was [SPOILER ALERT] remedied this season.

So now, no more debates. Happy Monday, America.

thankful: roots

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 15:30:00 +0000

A rerun for Thanksgiving

My first family - the one with my mom & dad & sister - doesn't read my blog ~~much~~ ever, which is fine. Sometimes the voice I use and the things I say are not likely part of their vision of me; I know I still feel mildly shocked when my baby sister talks about drinking (she's in her 30s) and I certainly get edgy if my parents remotely reference the fact that they do it. So it's cool that we have some separateness.

But I still need to acknowledge how grateful I am for their presence in my world, even if that presence is 6 hours of driving (and no simple plane or train ride) away. And that I miss them when we go long stretches without visits.

My favorite things to think about from my original family life:

the way my mom can smell a bargain from 80 miles away and will not only seek it out for herself but also for friends & relatives (or friends & relatives of friends & relatives) who might be interested
the way my dad keeps himself from telling me to shut up during the game when I have some piece of trivia about a football player, and that he still always wants to watch with me anyway
the way my sister rolls her eyes if I start bantering with a store clerk I've never met, and the way she threatens to leave me behind if I don't stop talking TO A STRANGER (but she never does leave)
our house on Whidbey Island, which is in the same spot and contains the same odd, short, makes-you-trip-when-you-run-on-it staircase as when it was built more than three decades ago, even though the entire downstairs is completely remodeled, and smells like dryer sheets & good food & my mom's hard work
our garage, which houses dozens of boxes of my extremely embarrassing notes from junior high and Fisher-Price Little People (the ones that would spontaneously choke unsuspecting American children today), and smells like gasoline & oil & my dad's patience with me
our driveway, which used to lead to my grandparents' house across the way (I could run there in 14 seconds; I timed myself once when the big light in the center was out and I had to get something from my grandma after dark)
the cozy warmth when we light the wood stove then pull out old blankets and sit together, in front of the TV with ice cream

Young Bad Mom with the Good Dad who took her on all the scary rollercoasters

My beautiful baby sister, my beautiful mom, and me

Manday, much better than Monday

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 04:05:00 +0000

Just like I'm trying to make peace with Sundays, I hope that by henceforth calling Monday 'Manday,' the beginning of the work week will be much improved.
[Mad props here to Mrs. G's glorious Mancake/Bigger Love feature at Derfward Manor]

First entry, the smartastic NPR hottie who moonlights as a crooner with Pink Martini and is surely honored to be my newest Potential 2nd Husband : Ari Shapiro

He's very serious[ly sexy]
NPR photo

Be still my heart
photo by Walter Grio 2011

Bonding at Live Wire!
photo by adoring & infinitely patient 1st husband

Swoon.
I kind of want to start Monday/Manday all over again.

sunday night insight

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 00:49:00 +0000

I don't want to hate Sundays. They start with such grace, a 'day of rest' full of nothing but lovely relaxing air (except during football season when I have a tension headache until the Cowboys are done playing but that's not Sunday's fault, really).

But toward dusk they begin to change, like terrifying harpies, into mean-spirited soul-destroying entities. After having seduced me with a languorously carefree pace, they begin to devour my minutes with a depraved glee until I weep with anguish, having accomplished nothing of so-called merit. I start drinking large glasses of wine at 4 p.m. then retire to bed early, certain that Monday will bring only darkness & despair.

Perhaps I exaggerate a touch.

I would like to a) stop hating the last hours of the weekend and b) return to writing on my blog and subsequently de-stressing about ultimately unimportant or nonexistent issues. So I'm trying Sunday Night Insight, wherein I consider what I've done/eaten/thought/seen over the weekend that feels meaningful in my life so that I can begin the week looking forward instead of down at my feet, pitifully.

***
Yesterday, I remembered in the nick of time that I was a Board member (oh, and Secretary) of a local theatre group, and we had a 10 a.m. meeting. Got there on time, gave reasonably intelligent input, put together some ~~kickass~~ passable notes, drank lots of coffee to keep up with young thespians, had lunch & some deep conversations.

Then I napped.

But THEN I got into my boots and hit the town to ~~become best friends with~~ see and talk awkwardly with Carrie Brownstein & Ari Shapiro at the Live Wire! Radio taping. It was deliciously fun listening to them during interviews plus OMG Ari sang while Thomas Lauderdale played piano. There could have been sobbing but I had stopped drinking just in time to keep my cool.

Today, the dreaded Sunday, I watched my Cowboys play awfully/play better/almost lose/WIN while my family wandered in & out of the living room, commiserating & cheering as appropriate. Afterward we all ate leftover Chinese leftovers and watched the DVRed Survivor from last week. Now we're reading & writing & editing videos & doing laundry & performing home improvements as Christmas music plays on the radio.

Next, I'm taking myself for a leisurely wander through Trader Joe's to get everything I need for Thanksgiving without having to fight rushed & crabby shoppers.

The insight here [FINALLY; thank you for sticking with me/no hate mail] is that I did wonderfully fun things as well as accomplished some things, and that is good enough for a couple of days.

I can sleep in peace tonight.

Tomorrow I'll start working on hating Mondays less.

frivolity

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 04:34:00 +0000

In case anyone thinks I am only blogging serious topics these days, here is a nonsequential list of Ridiculous Things I've Done in the past week that will disabuse even the most casual reader of such a notion.

Awoke at 6 a.m. on a weekend morning to watch [on my 3" iPhone screen] potential 2nd husband swim in Berlin
Spent multiple minutes in a row plucking wild silver hairs from my head
Composed pretend conversations with a certain World Cup swimmer/potential 2nd husband that always ended with us going out dancing
Had actual [mostly one-sided] Twitter conversations with the same World Cup swimmer/potential 2nd husband in which I am at my most witty & brilliant, but no one gets to go dancing
Shamelessly wore yoga pants & Fountains of Wayne tank, slippers, and fancy houndstooth coat to drive daughter to 7 a.m. stage band practice
Planned imaginary vacations to Disneyland, Hawaii, and Singapore
Planned imaginary move to London
Checked Twitter Interactions for a response from World Cup swimmer/youknow every few hours, every day
Sang along to Beyonce, with emotion; thought I sounded pretty ... irreplaceable
Forgot to drink water and/or eat for 5+ hours at school
Fed my family pizza at least 3 times
Watched no football games in their entirety
Experienced actual concern about who might be voted off Survivor
Considered an e-mail rumble with my son's English teacher for telling my kid he wasn't 'ready' to read Catcher in the Rye
Bought a bagful of Chanterelles but have not yet eaten them while watching The Walking Dead

Now, feel free to indulge in a superiority complex and question my role in shaping the future of our world.

This is just to say, however, I think we should all experience a little more ridiculousness every now & then.

Though I really am counting on dancing with youknowwho in real life sometime in 2014. Without bribery, drugs, or blackmail. Okay maybe some bribery.

just us

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 21:26:00 +0000

I was born a middle-class white child.

As a girl growing up in the 1970s, I was lucky to have had a generation of pants-wearing, bra-burning, whistle-blowing, union organizing women pave the ERA way for me & my sparkling red banana-seated bike.

As a teen in the 80s, I was placed in advanced math and never made to set foot in Home Ec. I was encouraged in my bid for ASB VP and weird desire to run track. No doors closed in my face when I applied to colleges and jobs and volunteer positions.

I cannot remember a time when I missed a meal, couldn't replace worn shoes or jeans, opened no presents on a birthday, wasn't able to pay a school fee. My parents gave each other the silent treatment now and then but no one ended up with bruises or scars, physical or mental. We went to Texas every summer, stopping all over the nation to visit tourist attractions & amusement parks.

And since falling in love with 6th grader Jimmy Hendricks (swear) on my bus when I was six, I have never questioned my sexuality nor the guarantee that I could legally marry any of the subsequent boys/men on my Potential Husband list.

In short, I have no real idea what it means to be a minority. To be discriminated against. To be degraded or discounted as a valuable member of society. As a teacher (and reasonably sensitive person), I wince when I notice these things happening to students and their families; I am dedicated to resolving these situations but ultimately feel overwhelmed because it is unbelievably rampant. I feel naive saying it's unbelievable, and disgusted that it is rampant.

I spent yesterday at the Teaching for Social Justice conference in Portland, hoping to find a useful balance between misplaced raging against relatively small machines and real sensitivity to differences & acting on injusitices. The conference has been hit & miss the last few years; one year I took home a lot of helpful tips but the next I was glared at for mentioning that stereotypes come from legitimate observation and are sometimes accurate descriptions (specifically "scream like a girl").

This time, I learned more about effective strategies & programs for my students. But more importantly, I learned to remind myself of where I come from and understand how that shadows any conversations I have with kids. I saw how I tend to project my own experiences as a How To [DO ANYTHING YOU WANT]. I know I do this with positive Pollyannaish intentions - Yes You Can! - but I see how it cannot possibly resonate when students see a wealthy, white, educated, well-dressed, happily married homeowning woman who has never known real hunger or want or cold or terror. No matter how often I tell them about my college hardships and that most of my wardrobe is from clearance racks & Goodwill and that I'm lucky to have an engineer husband + lots of bargains to afford vacations, the fact remains that my whiteness, social status, and even sexual identity give me a free pass in this world. I don't believe I need to feel guilty or ashamed about these advantages but I do need to acknowledge them, and not overlook their absence for many of our students.

In the midst of a workshop, I remembered a conversation I had this week with a student after school. He was telling me about his life as part of a gang in his former town and how he was so glad to be with us now, then he mentioned how he's still in touch with a friend who wishes he could get out. I stupidly asked, "Why doesn't he just stop, or leave?" I knew the instant my mouth opened that this was the most ignorant privileged-white-person thing to say yet I couldn't stop it; as soon as it was in the air between us, this sweet boy graciously did not laugh in my face but he did smile before telling me that was not possible. I said, "But you did it!" He told me he was lucky his mom wanted to move and had a place to go, but he is still afraid of that gang because even from hundreds of miles away, they could still decide to 'get him' for 'acting white.' I wanted to cry - for this boy, his friends, all of the kids out there like them, and our world when it misses out on the potential words & music & dancing & inventions & cures & joy & genius they could leave for us, if we could only provide the social justice, and future, they deserve.

I still want to cry, but more than that I want to rage. And act. Please help - seek brilliance, practice equity, recognize intolerance and crush it with ferocity.

inciting insight

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 21:54:00 +0000

I used to want to be a psychologist. My 9th grade me, in a "Labor Day 2000" essay I vividly remember crafting (mainly because I had specific visions of my grown-up wardrobe), saw this careerwoman of the future as a jet-setting, brown leather boots- & tweed skirt-wearing young mother of 2 traveling from Seattle to New York City for a National Psychologists of the World meeting (I don't think that even exists). All I knew was that I could see behind every teen magazine advertiser's attempts to get my hard-earned babysitting dollars, and I could overanalyze conversations with boys to decipher real meanings ("You're really funny" = "We should always be just friends" and "You're really smart" = "Please do my homework while I talk to this other girl").

That and wearing stylish clothes I could finally afford were all I really knew about being a psychologist; the minute I found out there would be SCIENCE CLASSES involved, I was out. Though in my teaching job, where I do get to wear stylish clothes [my Mechanical Engineer husband can afford], I do use those critical thinking & listening skills I developed back in high school, as well as questioning & observation. Every day.

But not with myself.

Anytime people recommended I see a counselor, I ~~punched them in the neck~~ felt tense. I always thought two things: First, counselors are a good idea for some people. Second, I am not some people because I know exactly what my issues are and amdealingwiththemjustfinethankyouverymuch.

But knowing one's issues and actually addressing them are very different things. I finally decided to see a counselor after frantically texting my husband on the way to work about our need for my salary; I was hyperventilating about the last few weeks of school and could not convince myself that I was doing a good enough job at teaching + parenting + volunteering + friending + wifing.

Talking to a paid someone about my issues has been more than just terrifying (one significant issue is control & not liking surprises), it has been immensely helpful in relieving my crowded, spastic brain. The most interesting revelation is how unkindly I tend to talk to myself; I have actually thought kinder things about serial killers. I am learning to be gentler with myself, which is a little weird because it is essentially having arguments inside my head - admonishing the sardonic Me (who is responsible for many of my more hilarious Facebook posts, frankly) while soothing the belittled Me, without becoming a maudlin Oxygen Channel feature. I think we're doing alright so far.

All of this is to say: I want to write more here, more relevant & interesting & funny & possibly useful things; I also want to be present with my family, teach well, enjoy the company of friends, and indulge in a few shenanigans now & again. So here's hoping I can keep Me and Me working well together. I appreciate your support, People Who Like Me.

gold medal delusionist

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 05:51:00 +0000

I have a new secret Olympian boyfriend. Actually, it's not so secret considering I have very publicly stalked him in a mildly embarrassing Ellen Barkin-Cougarish way via Twitter and Facebook.

Anyway.

I will not attempt to convey the depth of my reasoning because everyone to whom I've tried to explain how I appreciate his journey & dedication & philosophy has given me a patronizing raised eyebrow and condescending nod, so forget it. Let's just say I think he's intelligent and thoughtful...and hottastic.

But once I discovered that he diligently responds to his Twitter followers, I became determined to make an impression. Partly out of a middle-aged-woman attempt to feel less than ancient & irrelevant, and partly because I do truly believe he has wisdom to offer my students (and most teenagers) who are often floundering & uncertain about how to keep moving in life. Anthony Ervin has told his story in Rolling Stone and has put himself on the world's stage in ways that are both self-promoting & altruistic; neither is a negative thing, frankly.

I am not quite old enough to be his mother yet enough years ahead to be his capable babysitter. Plus, I am happily married 19 years to a fantastic guy. Yet, I am not blind nor dead. I am beyond caring whether people believe my intentions, and am not too proud to admit one of them is the hopeful hope that he will appear at my school in the flesh for a commencement speech. And allow me to gently touch his forearm at least once. I have a strange thing for swimmers' arms.

Anyway, again.

He's a good guy, Anthony Ervin, even if all he ever does for me is Tweet some inspirational quotes for my wayward students and feign interest in visiting Portland (done). He has gone astray in his life, experimented in ways that he is not proud of [raise your hand if you can identify], and has made efforts to seek inspiration & redemption.

If he hadn't already earned a gold medal, I'd offer one for that.

And for his arms.

bitten

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 08:24:00 +0000

I finally got to go to New York City, and it was better than I expected. I realize that might sound crazy to some because why wouldn't I expect NYC to be anything but amazing? But I am the kind of nut who is wary of hype & awe: I wouldn't watch Survivor until the second season; I didn't start reading Harry Potter until the 5th book was released; I still haven't seen The Avengers. I think it's a control freak thing - I'll do things when I choose, not when the mindless masses flock like sheep to them. Also maybe an elitist snob thing, too. Anyway.

When I applied to volunteer at BlogHer this year in New York I figured if the conference didn't rock my world, I could 'fall back' on tourism. Conversely, if I felt too overwhelmed to even begin sightseeing, the magnificence of workshops, swag, and guest speakers would make up for it. Yeah. It sounds dumb to me, too, now.

I was nervous about visiting the Big Apple. The City that Never Sleeps. The Empire City. City So Nice They Named It Twice. Gotham. Mainly because I was afraid I would call it one of these weird nicknames out loud and be instantly labeled a lame tourist [my Pacific Northwest non-accent and supersuburban hairdo and lack of dramatic makeup would not give me away, of course]. More honestly, my need-to-be-right-the-first-time mania caused me to worry about getting lost, wearing unfashionable outfits, getting lost, not knowing which Very Famous Landmark I'm looking at without consulting a guidebook, being randomly swindled in some way. And getting lost. So I mapped out my conference schedule and told myself "If I have time, I'll wander around." Three marginally useful sessions, one volunteer shift, and 9 hours later I hit the streets of ... Hymie Town? What? No.

In two & a half days and three nights, I :
Perused the gift shop and gazed longingly into the foyer of MoMa, sat at the Time-Life fountain across from Radio City Music hall amongst lunching real-life New Yorkers, stepped into the Ferrari store (to get a photo for my man + breathe delicious 60 degree air for a minute), ate a street vendor's delectable mustard-soaked hot dog in the shade of Park Tower, peeked through the closed doors of Carnegie Hall, enjoyed an early birthday dinner at Russian Tea Room, strolled around the Empire State Building at midnight.
and
Watched a traffic cop at work on 42nd Street, marveled at every.single.inch of the NY Public Library (except the room housing works of "Shelley and his circle" which I desperately wanted to see but was gently turned away from by the adorable monitor because people were actually doing research inside; what.ever), considered eating at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central but decided instead on Junior's [and the integrity of my children's college accounts], rode the subway after being kindly shown the right way to swipe my Metro card, walked an obscene distance in the wrong shoes, smelled Central Park Zoo, cabbed to the Met because I grossly misjudged its distance from the south end of the park, almost threw a punch at the first (and only) rude resident who I hope will soon be fired from her fantastic museum job for being a sassy-faced bitch, raced through Egypt, the Medieval room, & Contemporary Art, cabbed back to our hotel where I submerged my blistered feet in icy bath water while devouring Junior's cheesecake, trekked to Studio 54 to see Harvey, got scolded for taking a photo in the 'copywritten' theater, paid $13 for a 2-shot vodka/cranberry served in a sippy cup, strolled down Broadway, inhaled a late dinner at Sardi's amongst caricatured celebrities, wandered through Times Square where it appears to be daylight at all hours & people behave as though life is a constant cabaret.
and
Walked against running & cycling traffic through most of Central Park West, watched a few hits in a morning softball game where New Yawk accents were flying with the pitches, perused heartwarming & wrenching memorial benchplates, bought John Lennon pins from a park vendor & cried my eyes out from The Dakota past the Imagine mosaic, took dozens of photos of tangible serenity, listened to gospel singers and a tin pan alley trio, imagined Holden Caulfield, took the E line to World Trade Center, nearly melted from the sun-drenched line and unmanageable emotions, composed myself during a 9/11 survivor's stunningly beautiful story, found a tasty Philly cheesesteak in the Essex World Cafe where victims of the attack sought refuge for weeks, impulsively jumped off the subway to wander around Penn Station seeking the spirit of Holden again (not realizing until too late his version was demolished 45 years ago), discovered a lovely tribute to New Jersey poets in the train service hallway, got on the wrong subway in attempt to head back uptown but realized before we got to Queens, cabbed four blocks to our luggage, headed to JFK early enough to enjoy a leisurely dinner & series of chats with delightful waiter Duane before waiting 4 extra hours to take off due to lightning.

But it was all okay,
because I truly heart New York.

Want photos? Go here.

the humanity

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 05:45:00 +0000

I, like everyone with a heart & soul, am horrified by Friday's shootings at the Aurora, Colorado theater. Loss of life is always sad but losses due to violence are particularly troubling; I have a measure of expectation that people will be killed by accidents or diseases or old age, but these kinds of seemingly preventable deaths shake my faith. Not my faith in God but my hope that people will always choose goodness over wickedness. And I am not talking about the gunman - I strongly believe he is afflicated with mental illness and that often leaves people without a true sense of personal choice. I am instead considering those who, in their grief and horror and confusion, are directing hate & violent wishes toward this man.

I thoroughly understand wanting someone to 'pay' for pain that they cause others. It is natural for people to feel this way - if we didn't have powerfully emotional reactions like this, we would not be human. We tend to find satisfaction in witnessing an eye for an eye. But my belief in a loving merciful God and remembering that the one who perpetrated this violence is still a human being makes me set this aside. Make no mistake - I do feel terrifically angry about the senselessness of his actions, about all of those who simply wanted entertainment that night and whose lives are now either ended or significantly altered. My heart breaks for them and their families, but it also breaks for the person the gunman was before he made this fateful decision. For the people who know him and are now doubly traumatized being profoundly sad for the victims yet bereft of their friend & loved one, feeling utterly betrayed and somehow guilty for what happened.

It is a difficult thing to see a nightmarish situation like this one from the other side because we identify most with the victims; we think we are more like them than the criminal. Yet all of us have been faced many times with the choice between reacting the way we feel like and doing what we morally should. Everyone has said I could kill him! in a fit of anger; of course no one means it literally. Until something like this happens.

I do not advocate allowing anyone to escape reasonable punishment for crimes committed. Evil behavior is not excused by mental illness; people must be held accountable by our justice system for their actions. But as a civilized & just society I hope we can find compassion in our hearts for all affected by violence, including those causing it. It is tremendously difficult, like most important things are, yet so worth it.

I am not so naive as to believe simply feeling more loving or showing kindness toward the ill or wicked will prevent all tragedies like this one. I do, however, believe that if we allow ourselves to hatefully dismiss those committing these crimes we will never have peace.

We're only human, for better or worse.

fun #photoadayjuly

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 06:55:00 +0000

Silhouettes at night
A perfect night for fireworks
And memories made

best part of the day #photoadayjuly

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 03:03:00 +0000

After a few hours of rain, it was sunny. My son & I were midway through the 5 hour trek to my hometown. We had shared fries, strawberry lemonade, and a love for Queen (though he prefers I not sing along). Just as I told him to put away his DS for awhile, I noticed two enormous airplanes coming our way - military transports. Even though I grew up in a Navy town, I still marvel at jets and all things jet-related. I pointed them out to Mason and told him to get a picture. He took about a dozen shots of those first two before we spotted another; he aimed my phone through the windshield, sunroof, and behind my back out the driver's side window.

The best part of any day for me is connecting with my kids. In these moments on the road today, my son was not negotiating video game time or lamenting the lack of Weird Al in my iTunes or arguing about how stupid everyone in his school is. He was giddy with me about the size of these machines, their seeming proximity to our car, and what they symbolize; we giggled over his frantic attempts to find a perfect angle within the confines of our Mini Cooper.

Transported.

busy #photoadayjuly

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Mon, 02 Jul 2012 16:28:00 +0000

I love these piles. Stockholm Syndrome?

photo a day : self-portrait

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 22:52:00 +0000

This picture of me is the best I got from 7 tries
I rarely feel photos show what I think I really look like,

which I suppose says a lot about my level of self-delusion
I like my hands, my hair, my glasses, my eyebrows
I love being in London, and traveling in general
I am essentially happy with life

I'm trying to play along with Fat Mum Slim's Photo A Day challenge. You should too!

everything makes me cry

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 16:48:00 +0000

Neglecting my blog
Trying to keep up with my blog
Going to the gym
~~Not going to the gym~~
A perfect martini
A terrible martini
Believing I am entering menopause
Being told I am not
People losing their homes
Other people helping those who lose their homes
Going back to school in 8 short weeks
The idea of not having a classroom to go back to
Students who tell me I've helped them
Students too damaged to accept help
Students who are apparently just a**holes
Las Vegas
Anyone singing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah
Watching my kids grow up
The possibility of not watching my kids grow up
Remembering
Forgetting
Walking through the gates of Disneyland
Really good chocolate
Nora Ephron's writing
Me not coming remotely close to Nora Ephron's writing
Nora Ephron not writing anymore
Thankfulness

on love, beastie style

noreply@blogger.com (Stephanie Spencer) — Sun, 06 May 2012 00:45:00 +0000

I bought Licensed to Ill on cassette as soon as I could in late 1986. I listened to it continuously my freshman year of college, which may have been the leading cause of my best friend suggesting we not room together anymore after first semester. (It was a smart move; we are still friends today). I chose my first, uh, experience based largely on the fact that he reminded me of Mike D. (I have no idea where that guy is today; this is alright). It is possible that I drank more than I should have at 18 due to my love of the Beastie Boys but I am at peace with this, too; it's important to have the right regrets.

The day I heard Adam Yauch had cancer three years ago, my heart skipped. It was impossible - he was young; he had a kid the same age as my boy; he was A BEASTIE. Shut up.

Then, my heart broke yesterday when I heard he had died. It feels weird to be so sad about a person I have never met, but it makes some sense. MCA and the Boys introduced me to my inner bad girl and, even though she got me put on academic probation for a year, she boosted my self-confidence and led me to discover who I really wanted to be. And, who I really wanted to be with: Adam Yauch was not the no-good sleazy fight-for-your-right-to-paaaaaarty loserish bad boy he played onstage; he was actually a smart, charming, groundbreaking & talented bad boy who turned out to also be a caring, giving, peace-loving and thoughtful [though still a little naughty] man. I married a guy just like that 19 years ago, and it was the best decision of my life.

I know Adam's family and the other Beasties must be inconsolable this weekend; I can only hope it helps their hearts knowing people like me are with them in sadness, and remembering the raucous joy he brought during his time here.