sheep in trees

Tripping Babies

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sat, 17 May 2014 01:07:00 +0000

(Looks like I set this post aside for a few days and then forgot it for a few months. Typical.)

During a quick history of technology lesson with my kiddos, I popped a Dave Matthew's Band CD in to my old player and popped over to Tripping Billies. I got to thinking...

That was the song that was stuck in my head all through my labor and delivery of the short one. Who is now going to be a teenager in a matter of days. God save me.

He was the only reason I'd ever had to stay in a hospital. I mean, I'd been to the ER when I was 12 because of pneumonia, but that's it. But that's another story for another time.

Anyway, back to the Short. Labor. All the humiliation inherent in the entire episode. The hormone fluctuations alone were enough to make me want to staple my mouth shut forever.

Having him was like a dream. Except with more pain than I've ever experienced in my life. I blame the drugs and hormones.

My last meal as a non-mom was a salad from TE Murch's. Mixed romaine and iceberg lettuce, shredded mozzarella cheese, french dressing (AMAZING!). Murch's could do no wrong.

But somehow I noticed a song lyric stuck on a loop in my head:

Eat drink and be merry / for tomorrow we die...

and those obnoxious fiddles.

They had forced me into the hospital because the Short was 8 pounds. They said it was time he join the world. I wasn't so sure I was ready for that, but doctors tend to know better than me when it comes to those kinds of things.

What I was really unsure of wasn't my ability to parent. I can take care of little ones. I had seen it done well and I had read great books, dammit. No, I wasn't sure I was ready for the pinnacle of my irresponsibilities to manifest and embed itself into my lame life. I wasn't sure I really wanted to hold up this child as a statistic. Another child of another single mom. Even though I knew we weren't going to be a drag on the system for long. I was going to get going and take off (job-wise) and life would be fine for both of us.

Or maybe I would screw it all up. I mean, what wasn't cringe-worthy about my life in the 90s? It would be a short, short list...

Anyway, I handled his birth the same way I handed the boot home from Australia. Tuck my tail and breathe. Eyes open, but letting time drag me through it. Climb into bed. Pills where you really wouldn't expect them. Pump for the first time and wonder what the hell that was all about. Sleep or something like it. Mom telling me she told me so about packing my hospital bag early.

You know, she seemed to enjoy every minutes of my pregnancy, childbirth, and aftermath. I don't know why. Yes, my 26 year-old teenager is pregnant. Tragic, I know. But we'll get through it because we're good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, ....somebody out there, somewhere, gives a damn maybe.

It's not to say I didn't stress her the hell out, but she was my cheerleader. I don't generally like cheerleaders. They're a little too enthusiastic for my tastes. I feel patronized when I'm around all that cheerfulness. I just want authenticity.

I'm now getting to the place where I realize my mothers will not be around forever and I need to curb my distain for her cheery disposition. She truly is a wise, delightful woman. She may never think of me as being any older than a tween, but she did instill in me many good qualities. I am very much in her debt.

Back to childbirth.

I told her the only way I'd allow her in the room during Jake's grand entrance was if she followed these two expectations without exception: 1. No crying. 2. No singing.

You might think I'm joking about the singing part.

I'm so not.

Thank you for your sympathy.

Julie and my mom hanging around, a giant rubber needle inserted in my arm. Pitocin, they said, to encourage labor.

No, it was to encourage pain and also a desire for an early, swift death. But I settled, begrudgingly, for everything to be silent and an intense focus on breathing steadily. And not Lamaze. I was doing it myself. Because I'm assertive and I already know how to breathe.

I kicked mom and Julie out for not being quiet enough. They wouldn't shut up. And they were whispering. And for the record, I wanted to ask them nicely to STFU but a contraction came on so my polite request sounded a lot like a snarl.

They left willingly, telling me that they'd just go get a bite in the cafeteria, which just pissed me off sincerely. I hadn't eaten since the night before and they weren't letting me eat at all. I'm pretty sure I went into an all caps rage, but I couldn't do more than glare because of the contraction.

All this time, Dave continued with his eating, drinking, being merry, and dying. He and his friends were beginning to sound way too happy for my tastes. I could only accomplish one of those four things and it was neither fun nor satisfying. Moreover, being in a hospital didn't help my odds.

I'll spare you the drudgery and misery of the rest of this and wrap this up with a list, bulletted for your convenience:

My dad hated everyone and I scared the hell out of him. (Dogged Marine!)
Two epidurals. No joke.
Statal. Not sure if I spelled it right, but I remember the horrifying things I said. Intern? Come on in! Best friend's husband? Sure, come say hi! Hot OB who delivered my kid? ...I'm not telling you what I said to him. It makes me blush just thinking it. Nevermind that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
4th degree tear.
Should've taken the cesarean.
6 weeks not standing up for more than two minutes without feeling like my internal organs were going to exit my body in the same fashion as my child.

Despite how the Short came to be and the crazy events that preceded his arrival, I regret nothing about his existence. Over his 13 years of life, he has been a lot of things, good and bad. Despite the mistakes I've made with him, the words I've said that came out all wrong and were hurtful, the actions I've done well and the ones I've missed out on, all the ways I've done right by him and the ways I've screwed up, he is becoming more and more a man that I'm so proud do call my son. I know better than to assume all the credit for this, because I am not his only influence. Westley gets credit, and so does his kid.

But the Short amazes me. Every day. His authenticity, his honesty, his humor and humility, empathy and compassion. He is truly a blessing.

And he can fit into my hockey skates. If he stands on his toes when he's wearing them, he's as tall as me. I guess I can't really call him Shortness anymore. Gotta find a new nickname.

Love you, kid.

Someone's Angry.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Fri, 16 May 2014 23:47:00 +0000

I always hated it when people would say that in reference to the short.

On a side note, he's not that short anymore. He's almost as tall as I am. I don't like it. But I do. He's an awesome kid. Fun to talk to. He seeks my advice and I feel honored. ...I so digress.

I never liked thinking of Jake as angry when he cried. He was upset. He was uncomfortable. He was hungry. He had a rash and it bothered him. But Angry? I didn't want to put that on him.

I don't like being angry. I don't like carrying it around. And when I feel high and mighty, I never think I have a problem. But it's there, under all that. Just buried deeper.

All this came to the surface after reading something my cousin posted on her blog. I didn't know she had a blog. And I didn't know she was angry at our grandfather. She hates him.

At first I was stunned. How could anyone hate Grampa? But then I thought about it some more and I totally see her point. He was very smart, having memorized huge books, never forgetting a name, being a successful salesman. He dropped out of school in the 8th grade to take care of his family. He could be loud (his sneezes always made me jump out of my skin). He was abrasive. Even giving him a kiss hurt with his steel wool five o'clock shadow. He could be scary. He could be an outright jerk, and if he pointed his finger at you, the best you could do was to hope for a swift end to your suffering. He would say things that would make me hide under the table because never in my wildest dreams would I even consider it okay to say that to another person.

I mean, I have a paralyzing fear of conflict, so that's not a stretch. And to be fair, he never raised a had to me. Threatened Gram with a cane once, but I kicked them both out of the kitchen and they laughed.

But near the end, when he was old, frail, and mostly deaf, he was defenseless. I took him out to lunch once a week. I put his walker in the back seat. I made him jump out of his skin when my car would sputter and I couldn't take off smoothly (I learned I had to goose the gas a couple times before letting out on the clutch). I saw, when I was pregnant and had polished off two eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and had gotten half way through a short stack of pancakes, this confused expression on his face. I saw it when he'd ask me to do the things that he couldn't do himself anymore. I saw it when he couldn't make his legs work at the grocery store. He was stuck right in the doorway and the other door wouldn't work. He couldn't take a step. He talked about how he had pissed off his son (my uncle) and how sorry he was that he lost him. How sorry he was that my cousin didn't make it to Gram's funeral. I felt guilty that didn't go visit him after he was bound to a wheelchair, when he had accidents and started having strokes. I never went to go see him at the nursing home. Mom went every week. She said it was okay that I didn't go because he wasn't there anyway. I'm glad I never saw him like that. And I'm sorry that I saw him the last time. He was a tough man, breaking down to infirmity.

So I see why she's angry. But I see why I can't hate him.

Then I wondered why she would hold on to that hate. I don't do that.

Yes I do. I can name three people right now that I ...I don't know if I hate them. But I'm livid with them. For using me. For treating me less than I deserved to be treated. And I'm not being high and mighty about this. They treated me as if I were less than human. No decent person would do the things they did. They are wrong. Broken somewhere. I end up pissed off every time they pop into my head. I scream at them until I'm hoarse. I snub them and walk away as they plead for me to be reasonable. I picture sweet revenge with flying, solid fists in solar plexuses and jaws. But you know... what good does it do? They don't care anyway. Obviously they never did.

It's easy to hurt people when you don't see their value. It's how bullying starts. It's why abuse happens. How genocide ends up in our history books.

What's left except for death? But seriously, for the record, I don't think I'm capable of killing anyone or anything (the idea of hunting and killing a deer makes me cry). Mostly likely, the only one who would end up hurt is me. I don't hit that hard and I'm not that lucky. Justice and/or revenge usually doesn't work out in my favor. At least it didn't when I was in the justice/revenge business. you know, in high school. Any maybe some in college. Okay, maybe a little after college. Some of this shit happened after college.

When I'm completely honest with myself, I more livid with myself more than these assholes. I hate myself for not having the balls to stop it from happening in the first place. I hate myself for not sicking up for myself, for not challenging him or calling his bluff to save myself (why couldn't I take a few punches instead of letting that happen?). I hate myself for being a sheep, for laying down and just allowing someone else to make my choices for me. I hate myself for not knowing what to do when he left. I hate myself for losing myself, because damn, the old me could be a hell of a woman. I hate myself for not believing my gut when I knew he was lying to my face. I hate myself for being afraid of conflict, for not knowing that I was worth more. I hate myself for always wanting to keep the peace, for just getting through the situation, and then, upon reflection, realizing that I got steamrolled. I'm angrier with myself than I am with these assholes.

So yeah, I guess I'm not that high and mighty. Ever. I realize I can't walk through this life without hurting people or getting hurt myself..

And while I was thinking about my cousin's post, I realized that every time I think I'm better than someone else, I'm really less than them. When I'm in that better-than-you mindset, the door opens for me to be just as cruel as those assholes. Except in little bite-sized comments that won't be forgotten, just tallied up along with the other injustices that she has to suffer. Those stupid, thoughtless comments that slip out or that sounded innocent enough in my own head, but aren't sensitive to her situation. Whatever that situation is (she's a minority, a bigger girl, a recovering drug addict or alcoholic, a rape or abuse victim, she's had an abortion or given a baby up for adoption, or anyone else that Society hates).

The closest I've ever been to being hated by Society was when I was an unwed single mother. Or, according to Society, a selfish whore, even a pregnant teen. (I got swatted by someone with a magazine once who told me I was too young to be pregnant. "I'm 26!" I replied, and he looked bewildered.)

I'm not laying down when I tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said when I was high and mighty. My experience might not be the same as yours. Certainly isn't as severe as yours, because I don't live it every day anymore. I don't have a right to claim that we are so similar, or even that I understand what you go through. In one way or another, though, we all are a target at some point in our lives. And we all have insecurities that we put on other people. And it's not right.

So here's what I think is the solution to this.

I want to treat myself as nothing less than priceless. I will do everything in my will to treat you the same.

Namaste.

Now Brewing: A Long Series of Posts

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Tue, 26 Nov 2013 20:58:00 +0000

But first, I find it funny that in the years since this profile pic was taken, I grew out my hair. A few weeks ago, I cut it all off (again) and now I'm back to looking like this profile pic.

I'm thinking that maybe the only lasting thing I have to offer this world is my story.

And while it's not amazing, it's what I've got. I can talk about low self-esteem, serial dating, the awkwardness of being a late bloomer, and a myriad of other embarrassing stories that go along with all of it. I want to write about the stuff I'm not proud of. Maybe then I can let it go instead of hanging myself by it like I tend to these days.

You don't get to know everything. I've gotten out a diary and it's filling up fast. Some of it is rough draft stuff, some of it should stay there. But what I do share, I want to share with humor. Might end up reading like Bridget Jones' Diary. Probably will be more sarcastic.

I'm not dying, nor am I suicidal or anything like that, but I have been doing a lot of pondering. And I can't die anyway. I have too much debt to pay off. O.o

However, there are some weird things going on inside my body and no one has any answers.

So on that note, I'm signing off.

More to come.

Adventures in Self Improvement and Failure

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sun, 28 Jul 2013 16:53:00 +0000

Making a valiant effort at kicking butt and taking names. Coming up short on occasion; sometimes they hand my butt back to me and tell me to try again.

What I do:

Exercising every day. Whether it's running, swimming, biking (mountain or road), cross fit, some yoga/stretching, and/or a combination there of, I try to do something every day. And then take a day off. Today I want to run and bike. And it's a long slow run day.

The Whole 30 Challenge. And since I've been off it, all I feel like I'm doing is failing at feeling good keeping weight off. As of the other day, I hadn't put on any weight. But I feel different since I stopped. I feel more bloated. I reckon if I were awesome, I'd go back and start it over. But then I make plans to make potato soup (from scratch) for my family... I can't turn down my soup. Or can I? (Mmmmm, spaghetti sauce with spaghetti squash...)

The Whole 30 got me off some habits- I haven't gotten a pop yet. I don't add sugar to everything like I used to. But potatoes, man. Those things are my downfall. Eat a half a bag of family size ruffles? Sure! Then I have guilt. Even though it was still delicious. Resistance failure.

What I know:

I've learned about forgiving myself, but I can't seem to find that line between what I should forgive myself for and what I should have told myself not to eat in the first place.

I've learned that getting a workout done first thing in the morning, then I'm usually good for the rest of the day. If I leave it for later, there's always one reason or another to put it off until it's time for bed. And then it doesn't happen. Because it's time for bed.

I've learned that I should unsubscribe to those fitness motivation groups on Facebook because even though I've dropped seven pounds, am back to a size 8, and have rock solid, well defined legs that can carry a 250 pound man, and the beginning of defined abs, I'll never look like a fitness model or a bikini competitor.

Why?

I've had a kid (stretched out stomach, never to be perfectly flat again) and I have funky genes (saddle bags and poor upper body strength). This does not mean that I won't try and I won't keep moving forward, but more like I should keep my expectations realistic. Focus on strength, agility, and endurance rather than being 120 lbs and a size 6. (That was high school.)

And understand that this stuff is going to take YEARS, not months. I do it in months, I won't stick with it. I know because I've done this crap in months before (like, when I was 22). Then I sprained an ankle and didn't get back into it.

Lame excuse, I know, but the changes I made were too drastic to maintain. I was playing soccer every day and usually playing more than one game, drinking gallons of sports drinks, and taking in 7 grams of fat on a good day! You can't resist butter for that long. So after the ankle sprain, it was six weeks before I could run again. By then I was out of shape, my confidence was shot to hell because I had to beg for rides and bruised my hands with my Bill Clinton crutches, and when it was over I went back to my old serial dating ways. Don't get me started on what kind of fail that was.

What I want:

What the hell is my goal?
To be 120 pounds and a size 6.

I hate the television and fitness models.

No, what I want to do are sprint triathlons, 5K races, and a warrior type race this year (just to complete), sprint triathlons, 5 and 10K races, a warrior type race, and possibly a road race next year (complete the 10K, compete in the tri and everything else), and keep working my way up.

"Someday" I want to do an Ironman, kick the crap out of everyone in a warrior dash, and make Arnold Schwarzenegger kinda scared if I ever meet him. And never mind the running a marathon that year; I'll have done it in the Ironman.

When I increase my distances in the triathlons depends on how I improve.

I want first or second in my age group. It would be sick if I could finish in the top 3 overall. THAT'S my goal. Fuzzy, I know. And I don't feel like attaching a date to it. So there.

What my obstacles are:

But there are things in the way:
1. Myself. Excuses, excuses, excuses. Eff that, I suck.
2. Family. They're important and deserve to suffer with my presence.
3. Work. Summer off, yay, but even those days fly by too quickly (WTF, July?! Where'd you go?) And when I'm walking out the door at 7am, that means I get up at 4 to do a run? Too dark to ride...
4. Not a fan of riding my bike long distances alone. Kinda scary, definitely lonely.
5. Not a fan of running in general. I can stop pedaling and keep going. I can stop swimming and glide a bit. I stop running and I'm standing there. It's not okay.
6. Mental blocks, treadmills, and trainers suck. I'm kind of talking about the same things here.

It mostly comes back to TIME. Sure I want to do an olympic. But when do I have time to train for that? Especially with work? And what the hell is this kind of thinking?

Ooo! Pictures help you tell stories!

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 00:02:00 +0000

School's going pretty well. I've learned some things. Mostly this:

Murphy's Law: The principal will only come visit when your class is having a chaotic moment. I could throw up.

And I've been running and running. Now I'm running six days a week. At about 4:15 in the morning. Because if I don't do it first, then I find some bs excuse to not get it done later.

I've been working my butt off. Almost literally. And it would be gone, too, if it weren't for that meddling food. Seriously, I'm all "Eat Clean!" until someone puts a pot of mashed potatoes in my kitchen and then I'm all loading up my plate and going back for seconds. Then I'm chugging a gallon of water to rinse it out of my system...

I did a triathlon training program through the Y this summer and made a lot of progress. I did a triathlon-- two of them! In the second one (a super-sprint), I even took 3rd in my age group!

But over the last couple months, I've also made a lot of progress with the Couch to 10k app. And the weight is beginning to come off...

Just in time for bronchitis. No more running. Get the heart rate up too high and start hacking like a smoker.. What the f? But everything I read says THOU SHALT NOT RUN WITH A COUGH. So I tried to fill it in with yoga (you should have heard me hacking away while downward dogging), pushups, crunches, and walks. I even went for a nice bike ride the other day. I felt like a granny.

I made it two weeks of this nonsense, then I lost my patience and went out for day one of a half marathon training program. The cough wasn't completely gone, but it was close enough. You see, I have this dream...

This is it- I want to look a lot more like this:

Yeah, except this is where I was at this past August (lost a few pounds since then, not that I think I look much better).

I just want to make it clear: Posting this picture was an exercise in humility.

So shut up. Right Now.

Obviously, I have genetics working against me. I may never be without saddle bags. But I know slow progress is still progress, keep working, sweat is fat crying, focus and go, keep your thoughts positive, chill the f- out, I got this, and give your genes a run for their money. You get the idea. I'm actually impressed by how far I've come. I was running a little over 5 miles before bronchitis. The bastard. Starting over again, I'm getting about three in. But it's all progress.

But seriously, I wonder if this is just my reality:

And in that case, I guess I'm still doing great. They say just because someone is thick doesn't mean they can't out run you or kick your ass in a triathlon. And the inverse is also true: just because someone is trim doesn't mean they're healthy. So I guess the lesson there is don't judge.

On another subject entirely, on Twitter, the Fake Todd Bertuzzi and the Fake Ty Conklin are following me. The real ones are pro hockey players. These guys are just funny. I feel honored. In a fake way. (My Twitter handle is @Sheepintrees. I don't post much, but when I do, I apparently do it like a boss.)

The Short is behind me singing I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It. I think I want to have a problem with that. But I'm too busy trying not to laugh.

All right. That's enough. Time to go get my school work done. Or play Minecraft. But I really should work. Yes. Work. (and by work i mean minecraft)

Oh Shmi.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Thu, 17 May 2012 18:05:00 +0000

The Shmi has been limping for a while now. We took her to the vet. Diagnosis: Osteosarcoma. It's in her rear leg in her knee. We are heartbroken, but since hearing that a couple weeks ago, we've put ourselves together and are hanging in there.

She's doing fantastic. She's not slowing down.

We've decided to not do much more than control the pain (because it is very painful, so I've read). Even if we amputate her leg and do radiation they only give her a one year prognosis. And then there's the cost-- in total to do all that is roughly $4000. For a year? Just to have her pass away anyway?

If she would live 5 or ten years I think we'd not hesitate.

But I still question it. She's such a brilliant, lovely dog. She's intelligent, has so much personality, and is like a big ray of sunshine at our house. She's elegant, if that can be said about any dog. She has such grace. And she's only 4.

And now we have a couple months to say goodbye?

How is this right?

Testing

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 12:55:00 +0000

Hello, my lovelies.

Blogging from an iPad. So, so sweet.

And wishing I were here. Again.

Still neglecting. Why change?

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 01:11:00 +0000

Much has happened. Another school year has almost passed. Down to our last 9 weeks. Wth happened?!

Still working on that story. Still have the same fears and aspirations. Some tweaks to the plot. But we're still going.

Dogs are well. Kids are well. Husband is well. Jettacar is gone as of last fall. I have a new ('09) Civic Hybrid. With an apple sticker and a firefly sticker on it because I have come to not only embrace my inner geek but also take pride in it. I am geek. Hear my nose whistle. Or something.

The short is playing hockey (wth?) and loving it. It's great to see him get all giddy and remind me about a schedule and nagging me about being ready on time instead of the other way around.

New(er) things I'm contemplating:

1. running. again. been at it for about 6 weeks. Hoping to find my saddle bags along the side of the road. Soon.

2. weight watchers. I don't know what happened last fall but the 20 pounds crept back on to my hips. they're wide enough without it. It's two steps forward and two steps back so far. But we're keeping at it.

3. Spotify. I want it so I can listen to entire albums and decide if I want to buy them for myself. 9.99 a month for that? I think the preview this album option on iTunes will have to do. I'm too possessive to trust the cloud yet.

4. Porcupine Tree, Gotye, and Active Child. Damn you Radio Paradise, why do you have to keep expanding my music collection. And don't you even think you're off the hook, Pandora. You're just as much to blame as Bill over there. ..and I don't have a crush on Steven Wilson... Okay, I do. Just a little one. Because he's a little guy. Who looks pretty cute when he's showered. And shaved. Enough.

5. iTunes Match. I know I should have sprung for a 64 gig iPhone. We're sitting much more comfortably after deleting 300 songs and now are resting around 2200 tunes. The majority of the suck is gone. (Read "suck" as "anything that climbed into my iPod circa 2005") But it might be nice just to stream everything instead of store it. I know I'm going to run out of space. Like this year. But then to have to rely on the cloud? It's a head scratcher.

6. Vinyl. I picked up Florence + the machine's Ceremonials on vinyl. Someday when I have a bigger house, my stereo equipment is going in a library/study type wrong. And damn, are we going to enjoy some incredible tunes. Next I want Porcupine Tree's In Absentia and maybe something by Gotye. (Saw that coming, didn't you?)

7. These last couple months I've been hemorrhaging money. F*ck. Dogs and trips to chicago and fixing a broken down old jetta and Christmas is freaking expensive.

8. I want to take up dance again. Just dance. I love to dance. I'm not that good at it, but it doesn't mean I shouldn't have fun.

9. I had a good review at work. I was in the zone that day. But then they say next year the expectation is that all teachers must show growth in their annual reviews. And someone else said the admin was told to mark us low so that we all had room for improvement. Crap. So much damn red tape.

10. Jake loves hockey. I hate the hockey moms. I listened one bitch about her $900k house with an elevator, heated pool, and jacuzzi not selling. Bitch, give me your problems. Wait. I think I'd rather have my feet on the ground with the rest of the folks in my neighborhood.

Humility and wisdom, perspective and a compassionate, gracious attitude. That's what I want people to say about me when I'm gone. That and a little crazy. Because what's the point of living if you don't spin stuff to keep yourself, and if you're lucky, others, amused? Gotta have something to smile at. And if you have a reason to get stupid happy, then you're even luckier.

11. Writing every night. Just like exercise, I'm starting small. Write for a little while just before bed. At this point I'm not making any requirements on what I write. (Hence this nonsensical nonsense you see here.) Most of the writing I've done over the past week has been in a notebook. Having to do with my story. But now I'm here. Maybe I'll come back.

12. I hate facebook. I've never wanted to drop something so much in my life. But I won't because there are too many people there that I'd lose contact with. And that thought bugs me more than staying there. I prefer twitter. Blogger. Google plus, even though I haven't figured it all out yet. Anything but facebook. So I'm not updating much. Trying to be more stoic. Or distant. Or lurking. Whatever.

Time for bed. Must get up early tomorrow.

I've missed you. But don't tell anyone.

Long Time Neglecting

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 15:35:00 +0000

Thoughts:

The short is strange. He likes to wear things backwards and proclaim "I DON'T CARE" when I point them out. This pic does not illustrate that, but I love him for his spirit anyway.

Anywho, I've been a bad bad blogger. I can't be disappointing the three people who check this blog like that. Who do I think I am? What right do I have to waste precious seconds of other peoples' lives when they go to the trouble to find this blog and then realize it's not been updated in a month? For shame!

So I'm reading and I'm writing, thinking about this story that's been lurking around in my head for the last couple years and I'm actually making progress on it, even if it's just typing stuff into my computer and saving it there. I call it editing. I don't know if I have anything original going on in my head, if I'm writing anything original, or if it's worthy of the mere megabytes it takes up on my hard drive or the hours and hours I've spent on it, but maybe someday I'll show it to someone. I'm sick enough to have To Kill A Mockingbird aspirations here, but I'm sure I'll fall short. But I know one thing is for certain: it will be better written that Twilight. I'm not saying the story will be better, but thanks to Stephenie Meyer, I am hyper aware of overwriting my story and relying too heavily on adverbs and adjectives to describe everything down to the texture of his eyelashes. Sorry kids, I'm going to leave some things up to imagination.

Did anyone else think the movie was pretty much exactly what the book described?

Oh shit, did I just mention that I've seen the movie? Only the first one. I'd like to see the others just out of curiosity, but I don't care enough to go to the trouble. And yes, I read the books. And I was crazy about them for about 20 minutes until I started seeing the gear come out. I'm sorry, I'm not a groupie. Not a Twihard. Not a Twilight mom. I say hell no. I say fuck that. I relinquish any giddy interest I have in spending another dime on this collection of poorly written nonsense and no longer acknowledge what a fun ride her stories are/were. (And besides, the quality of the story slips dramatically lower in each novel. First = Fun. Last = Dragged ass. Boring as hell. TL; DNR.)

And I'm swearing today. At least in that paragraph. You can do that when you know no one's reading. I'm all about that today.

I bet you're wondering about my birth mom.

In a word? Awesome. I dig her. We look a lot alike. I have three talllll brothers, all handsome and dark haired. And we've hung out quite a bit. She's so cool air conditioning turns off when she walks into a house. She's down to earth, easy going, friendly, sweet, and has a beautiful smile. I do not have her smile. We have the same laugh lines and the same body build (trim), and the same flaws: short, sausage fingers, fat knees, saddle bags, flat chest. It's pretty amusing that after 20+ (lots of plus) years of living that I can say I look like someone and mean it because we actually share the same genes.

Maybe I'll be nice and post a pic when I get off my lazy can to ask permission. Gotta keep the three of you happy. ;)

We're on

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 13:26:00 +0000

At 1:00. It's currently 9:26 and I'm in a tizzy already. What do you wear to meet your birthmother? Do I curl my hair or leave it messy and natural? Do I wear contacts or wear my glasses?

I've opted for a white t-shirt, a simple necklace, my wedding ring and my bracelet. And jeans. And my simples.

I love my simples.

I know it sounds petty, but cripe, I haven't agonized about my appearance so much since my first day of high school. And even that was an epic fail. Even if it was 1989.

Thoughts on a meeting

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 00:21:00 +0000

I'd be a liar if I said this whole birth mother thing wasn't on my mind a lot. For cripes sake, I spent two hours today putting together a little scrap book of my baby pictures in chronological order. I think I've covered the first four years of my life. Just about every photo I can find that my parents took with their camera. And I have to admit I feel slimy that I put this thing together but can't send it home with her. As if Ishould. I was thinking I'll scan the pages and reprint them, but I don't know if that would be an insult to her.

There's so much to share, so much to tell. So much to learn and figure out. Am I looking to fill some gap or missing link in my life? No. I just want to satisfy my curiosity. I'd like to know where I came from. See the faces of the people whose blood I share. It's not of crisis level importance. But still, it's important to me.

Speechless.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 01:07:00 +0000

More like laryngitis. It's kind of stupid, really. I can't talk but I keep forgetting. I blame this cold I got a week ago. It's earned me a couple of days off work, though. If you can't talk, how can you teach? I hope it gets better over the weekend, though, because this is some kinda bull.

I have a lot to update you on. Some pretty cool things have been happening.

First, I sent the letter to my birth mother. It ended up being something like the letter I posted here.

Second, at the end of the Choose to Lose competition at the Y, I had lost 20 pounds. I don't know how exactly that happened, though, since two days before I weighed 4 pounds more than that. But whatever. I'm still fitting into the clothes I was wearing 4 years ago and that feels good. Am I satisfied? Not really. I'd like to lose a little more, but not this week. I just need to get out more, but since Michigan decided to return to December temperatures and I caught this cold, well, I've been out of the game for about a week. I feel like a sloth. Probably because I am one. I've been making every excuse. Today I didn't let myself go work out because I stayed home sick and had guilt.

I'm staying home tomorrow, too.

Things at work have changed. Again. The person who got to keep the other half of my current position asked if I'd like to trade with her and I agreed. So next year, if I'm there, I will be back to teaching technology. That doesn't make me want to cry.

I found a job I wanted, so I applied. I ended up getting a letter letting me know that they weren't going to hire for it due to proposed state budget cuts at the state level. I'd go on and on about how I hate this new GOP Governor, but this is not a political blog. Nor do I ever want it to be. That would be my father's blog.. I'd give you the URL, but I can't seem to find it.

I'm still "keeping my options open" regarding job hunting. I don't think that's a shock to anyone. I found a part time job but I don't know if we can afford if I went down to a part time job or two. Yay student loans and car payments. I dug my own hole on that one, I blame no one but myself.

And the most exciting news:

I got a letter back from my birth mother. I read it, then called my mom and read it again, started to post about it on Facebook, but then thought the better of it and called my dad, but couldn't get a hold of him. Later that evening, I called her and we talked and talked and talked for almost an hour.

It was crazy. I think I can safely say we're both bubbly people. And we have horrible timing. A bunch of times we started talking at the same time. It was awkward but exhilarating. So much fun. I've been driving by her house for years. I have three half brothers. I guess my birth father lives not far away, either. And her story really fleshed out the basic ideas I had in my head. She was going to marry him, but she woke up one day and realized moving away from her family at 17 to be a Navy wife wasn't really going to be the happily ever after she thought it would be.

And who can blame her? I thought picking up and moving to Australia was going to be a piece of cake. HA! It was hard to be away from familiar things. Somewhere between a hormonal withdrawal and homesickness I spent days on a futon crying my eyes out. Then near the end of my visit, on another hormonal bender, I felt like I was slogging though a one-minute-at-a-time existence. But that was because I was knocked up and every part of my body was kicking into high gear. Either that or it was the anxiety of having to tell my parents I was soon to become an unwed single mother. Regardless, I knew it was time to go home when my richest daydreams were visual fly-overs of streets I drove down almost every day for 24 years. Hardly exciting, but the desire to see them again was almost overwhelming.

Even moving an hour away sucked for a while. It wasn't like I couldn't just jump in the car and go home whenever I wanted. It wasn't that simple. Or maybe it was but the excuses not to up and go were compelling enough to keep me curled up on my futon, staring out my big picture window and across the boulevard I lived on down there. I remember crying to my ex-boyfriend (still thanking God every day that one didn't work out) about it. He said, "What can I do?" I said, "Can you move this little town closer to home?" He said he couldn't. Whatever. He didn't care enough, that's all.

Once I got beyond homesickness there, I looked upon the time I lived in the little town very fondly. It was a great time in my life. Free. Mostly. I didn't feel too lonely. Spent time with friends, worked, hung out with the short... I ended up dating someone damn cool, too. But alas, things changed, and here I live in a new city. It's not bad. It's no where near as charming as my old town and no where near as familiar and beautiful as my home town, but we can't have it all. At least this town has an awesome farmer's market (like Trader Joe's but locally owned). That's about the best thing I can say about this place. Oh, and my husband lives here. And so does his sister, who is awesome. Three good reasons.

But that's about where I'm at. I need to go cough for a while. And maybe get some sleep between coughs. It's good to have goals.

This week in ..stress.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 03:30:00 +0000

They're doing it to me again. Taking me back out of my element. We got our assignments for next year and I'm going to be... drum roll please... TEACHING 5TH GRADE!

Tell us what she's won!

A trip straight to my principal's office. I only managed to utter something about it being okay if I shut his door before he started in with, "Let me explain--"

But it was too late. I was already hysterical. For the record, Parker is a cool principal. He was my boss when I taught kindergarten and totally had my back. I'm sure he took a lot of flack for that, amusing year that it was. And by amusing I mean completely INSANE.

Anyway, he pointed out that I'd be working with a great team (and he's completely right-- some of the best names in the district are gonna be teaching 5th grade), and that I'd be out there with him as principal again. Which is a big plus.

Not stopping me from leaving no stone unturned whilest looking for a new library job. I've changed jobs 7 times in 6 years down there. I'm tired of being a first year teacher.. I get to do it every damn year and it's OLD. And I have to be really critical here: 7 jobs in 6 years screams either "we don't really have a place for you, but we're obligated to keep you because of the union" or "you suck. A lot. So we're going to keep you because we're obligated to because of the unions, but really, we'd really like you go away..."

This is where unions fail. I'd rather be laid off than this bullshit.

I know, I know, cry me a river, at least you have a job. But I hear so much about quality education meaning that you have the right people in the right seats on the bus, and I don't belong in the teacher seat. I belong in the media specialist seat. Too bad no one believes in them anymore. They're filling them with reading specialists instead. So they can drill kids on the skills until they hate reading instead of giving them something they might fall in love with and read because they want to. They'd develop those skills on their own instead of having someone shove it down their throat, but you know, what do I know about reading. I'm just a librarian.

I have a random idea that I think is brilliant and that I think I can really sell, but I think that, because of budget cuts, won't fly. (WTF with the budget cuts, Snyder? I knew it was going to be bad when you took office. Thanks for not disappointing.) But I'm a jaded optimist. I like to hope that I can make a difference somewhere.

And then, on Wednesday, I learned that my sticky clutch on the Jetta car is a bad clutch and needs to be replaced for the low/low price of $800 (better than the dealership that wants between $1400 and $2300).

So now I'm looking into modifying a loan so I can get a new(er) car. I love my jetta, but at 300,000 miles, I'm guessing this is where everything's going to start going wrong. So I'm thinking Honda Civic Hybrid, another Jetta TDI, or a Prius. But the Prius highway gas mileage isn't that great. It's more of a save-you-a-hell-of-a-lot-of-gas-in-town-kinda-car. I'm leaning toward another Jetta TDI or a Civic Hybrid. Kind of exciting but scary at the same time. We were thinking we'd have to not do the Australia trip, but maybe we still could if I can modify this loan...

I have the letter written. Now I just have to make sure it's right. Here it is in all its unedited glory (with internet safety in mind):

Dear... I don’t know your name yet. I’m sorry.

I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well.

I’m going off advice about how to write a letter to a birth parent. So this is going to sound formal and lousy. It’s my fourth letter draft and it’s taken me two months just to get this far. I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting... I’m not going to offer any excuses; none are good enough.

My name ended up being Nic---. And we just learned a couple years ago that I was born on December 9, 1974. Before that we thought it was the 7th. Afterall, that’s what was on the reissued birth certificate. I think someone wrote a sloppy 9. Anyway, I’m your daughter. (this form is stupid. I’m sure you’ve picked up on who I am by now.)

I’m writing strictly out of curiosity. I’m not ill, in fact, I’m one of the healthiest people I know. I’m out of shape, though, but I’m working on it. That’s beside the point, anyway. You should know I never had a day in my life that I felt abandoned or otherwise was offended by the choices you made. My adoptive parents always pointed out that you loved me enough to let me go and the decision you made was probably (hopefully) the hardest you would ever have to make in a lifetime. That’s my current view on the whole thing, too. You have nothing but my utmost respect. I am thankful for the life I’ve had and I give you a lot of credit for it.

I grew up living in ---- but going to ------ schools. I was right on the other side of the river from ----, up in the hills. I was an only child in my family, and we lived in a nice middle class neighborhood, and I had plenty of friends. I was bullied some, got beat up by baseballs playing little league, rode my bike without a helmet, and roller skated without pads-- all with reckless abandon (well, I didn’t actually ENJOY little league..). I even climbed trees without a net! (I’m sure you’re hearing how all of these things are utterly unacceptable now, right?) I graduated from --- in ’93 and went off to ---- (mostly because my parents wouldn’t let me go to Oregon for school-- always had a thing for the Pacific Northwest, not sure why). After the bachelor's, I ran off to Australia for 6 months to visit a friend. (We got to be more than friends and that’s why I have a 10-year-old now, but more on that later.) After that, I wasn’t sure what to do; student teaching had been a disaster and I lost my confidence. But after some tests and sound but strangely coincidental advice from some of my profs at school, I went and got my Masters’ of Ed (with a technology emphasis and library media endorsement) from ---- so I could be a school librarian. Too bad no one believes in school librarians anymore.. But I’m working on changing that, at least in the school district where I work. I’ve been there for four and a half years.

The ten year old (the short) says, “Hi my momma’s mother...” (He actually asked if I could put this in.)

I got married two years ago to a wonderful guy. He has an 11-year-old daughter. We all live in ----- (I really miss -----, but at least we have a local store like Trader Joe's, which a nice consolation prize). He works here in -- and I work in CW. I like reading, writing, and drawing, mountain biking and just about anything else outdoors (especially rock climbing, camping, hiking, swimming, and playing with my kids and greyhounds).

I guess all in all I’d like to get to know more about you and the rest of your family, if that would be okay. Stories and pictures would be fine if you’d rather I not meet them; I’m not picky. You’re welcome to share this with other people, too. I don’t want to sound demanding and like I’m trying to put a ton of stuff on you; I’ll go at whatever pace you are comfortable with.

I don’t know what all’s in it, but I have a neglected blog (sheepintrees.blogspot.com) and I’m on facebook (search for Nic---). You’re welcome to peruse those and even friend me, if you’d like. I don’t try to write anything offensive, so I hope you’ll read with an open mind. If you’d like to reach me by phone, my number is -----. You can catch me easily after 4 during the week and just about any time on the weekends. Sometimes I’m hesitant to answer my phone if I don’t recognize the number, but I’ll try to remember to ignore that urge. Otherwise, you can leave a message. We just got unlimited texting, too. Email is fine: ---- , and snail mail letters work great, as well. If the envelope tore, here’s my address again:

----

Please send me a quick message to let me know you got this. I’d really appreciate it.

With warmest regards,

nic

So that's that.

And that's all, really...

TEN YEARS.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 00:38:00 +0000

Updates.

1. Joined the Choose to Lose program at the YMCA. I hate the diet, hate the pain, but like that I have to be accountable for what I eat, the weight I lose (or don't lose) and what exercises I'm doing, etc. I feel like my life is all workouts and complaining about being hungry for something that's not part of the godforsaken 17 Day Diet. Change is good. Choosing not to eat certain food because of a diet foisted upon me by a sadistic trainer? Sucks arse.

2. Still am not done with the letter to my birth mother. I found a new format that is more appropriate, though, and short enough to write into one card. Which is better than the 32 page workup I wrote after starting here. Granted, the 32 pages included many pictures (which are a bitch to format once you delete something, *flips word processor the bird*). But I'm going to rewrite soon. Probably on here. Don't know when because it seems as if I'm spending all my time on a prehistoric treadmill or a antique bike on a new(er) trainer, but I digress.

3. This story I've been working on for a couple years. I need to get it done, too. I know how it's going to end. That's the first time I've ever written a story that has an ending. But is it a stupid story? Will everyone think it's predictable? Can I really flesh out the characters so that they are vibrant and likable (or hate-able?)... I dunno. But I don't want to really get into the details here.

4. The short got glasses and turned 10. Jesus have mercy on my soul. He started taking piano lessons and playing floor hockey, too. But 10? How in the hell did that happen?! I don't feel any older! TEN YEARS?!

I know this doesn't really go, but the ten years thing fits-- I feel like yelling about it like this. (And if you haven't seen Grosse Pointe Blank, you need to see it. It's a moral imperative.)

5. ...Family is doing well?

I think that's it. Still happily married. Still plugging along. Still a Mac and not a PC. Work is going fairly well. I'm getting into the groove half way into the year. And if the dog doesn't stop licking the couch, I'm going to drench it in Bitter Apple.

Boy needs help with piano homework. Must go.

TEN YEARS!

Ten years I've been keeping a blog, too. Poor you!

Letter to Birth Mother Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 09:40:00 +0000

This is a work in progress. As it sits right now, I hate it, but I'm working on it.

I'm having a hell of a time figuring out the format of my past. How does one tell a history? There's always the standard "begin at the beginning" but when I think of that, I always jump forward. History has a way of folding over on itself. Do I just tell it chronologically or itemize it? This is where word processing becomes a blessing.

Some headings for my own reference (they won't be in the final letter):

the call and the calendar

-to be added soon-

The first meeting

When my adoptive parents saw me for the first time, I was laying in a bed and crying. When my adoptive father picked me up, I stopped. He was immediately sold.

There's kind of a three-month gap that we don't know anything about where I was or who I was with after St. Agnes. My adoptive mother wasn't allowe

d to talk to my foster mother. So my adoptive parents assumed a thing or two... Either that or someone at St. Agnes told them a thing or two. I'm not sure which. The first thing they either assumed or were told was that my foster mother carried me around in a little pouch all the time. Hence the reason I stopped crying when my adoptive father picked me up.

I hope you don't mind if I just call them "mom" and "dad." It's a little easier to write... and a little more realistic... from my perspective, anyway..

This is one of the earliest pictures of me. This is me and my mom's dad. Grampa. If I remember this story right, he wasn't all that interested in my parents adopting me. That is, until he met me. He taught me not to interrupt. He was good at being assertive. And before he died, he told me what a wonderful person he thought I was. I miss the hell out of him.

Stacy

Another thing my mom learned by accident is that I was named Stacy, although none of us were sure who named me that (if it was you or the foster family). We found out when mom took me to the doctor's office. The nurses recognized me and called me Stacy. This threw my mom for a loop. And the nurses, too, when they found out my name had changed.

The birthmark

My grandmother, Grammy (her real name is Lucille, never Lucy), thought my parents should get my birthmark removed. That way no one from my past could come and claim me and take me back. It's still there. When I was a kid, it really bothered me. Before dance recitals, I used to make my mom put makeup over it. But now I don't even notice it. Gram was a bit nervous about stuff like that, but I can't fault her. She was wonderful, too. Kind, graceful, and sassy... at least she was after the stroke. My grandfather couldn't hear well, and after she had her stroke, all the little snide remarks she reserved for him in her mind began making small appearances under her breath. I don't think he ever knew. (NOTE TO SELF: ADD A PIC HERE)

Funny Feet

I guess my feet were turned in. I don't really remember... My mom would stretch them out and then I swear I remember these funny shoes they made me wear, even in bed. The doctor said it

would be good if I went to dance lessons, so they started me in ballet and tap when I was 3. I kept going with it until I was 11. It was good. I really wish I hadn't quit, but I can't fault myself for doing so; things were changing, if you know what I mean, and some of the things my teacher was asking me to do kinda creeped me out.

I don't know if I was good at it or not.

And I have no idea what I'm trying to do with my hands there. Or my feet for that matter, that's hardly first position.

Out of all the sports and activities I tried, well, let's just say that little league baseball and 8th grade basketball were fails, to say the very least. High school soccer.. that went pretty well. In college, I thought I was awesome playing pickup games.. I was keeping up with the guys, even some on WMU's team, and embarrassing the hell out of any girl who attempted to play with us. I don't play soccer much anymore, but I love to mountain bike, and I'm not all that bad at that... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

first attempt: A letter to my Birth Mother.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 01:08:00 +0000

So I sent in the paper work to find my birth mother. I guess the judge only approved finding my mother, but my intermediary (the person doing the search) says once you find your mother, you can usually find your father. I thought for kicks I'd start drafting my letter here. Of course omitting whatever is not pro-internet-safety. :P

So here goes..

Dear ____,

I never, for one second, thought that you were a bad person. I still don't and I never will. Choosing to give me up was gutsy, brave, and I'm sure it hurt like hell. For all the above, you, and my father, too, have nothing but my utmost respect and admiration. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to try and find you; I'll hope you forgive me.

For what it's worth, I'll try to catch you up. Hopefully, I'll also show you that I went to a good home. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I actually did.

(Wow, does this sound stiff, or what?!)

I've always thought it was kind of amusing that when people find out I'm adopted, they seem to think it's some sort of dramatic thing, that I'm so unfortunate. I mean you no offense when I tell you that for me, being adopted is no different than having brown hair or brown eyes. It's just another fact. (My adoptive mother was always telling me I was adopted before I even understood her words, much less the concept.) The only difference that I can tell is that I've traded all the creepy birth stories for creepy adoption stories. And a bunch of people, somewhere out there, sacrificed a lot for my happiness and really blessed my adoptive parents... at least until I became a teenager. (Insert sinister laugh here.)

You know, this whole shroud-of-secrecy thing surrounding adoptions displaces copious amounts of air, if you ask me. Kids are missing part of their history and birthparents are missing out on lives they'll never forget. It's unnecessary and cruel and I'll never understand it. But then, I'm of a different generation.

...to be continued...

It's too damn early for this.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 09:25:00 +0000

Can't sleep. Partially because the dog woke me up, partially because I had a dream about an age old high school insult. Whatever. I want it out of my head.

NPR is doing this project where they're collecting scans of diaries. And I figure since I've been keeping a diary since the 10th grade, I'll bet there's something in there that might be worthy.

Not that my diary is or was all that profound. I'd like to think there were some glimmers of hope in there for me both as a thinker and as a writer, but for the most part, they're the stunted ramblings of a delusional boy-crazy introvert. And I say delusional because I honestly believe I thought I was an extrovert and/or didn't think school caused me any anxiety. These days, I like to think of middle and high school as one long panic attack.

A couple years ago I tried to transcribe my diaries into one long word document, but I didn't get past the first few pages of the first diary. It wasn't because I lost interest. Well, in a matter of speaking, I did. But it stemmed from being so disgusted with how naive I was that I couldn't keep working on it. And the spelling and grammar issues. Holy Lord.

Truth is, I find enough fault with myself. I didn't want or need to review a million reasons why I was a social leper during the latter half of my K-12 public education career and the stupid situations I dealt with in college. For f*ck's sake, I can't stand hanging out with snot-nosed know-it-all undergrad students NOW. Why relive that supposed awesomeness?

But for some reason, I still have them. All. Every diary, from the first one written in a Mead spiral bound notebook (light yellow, 3 subject, wide ruled with the dividers torn out and a little unicorn on the corner of the cover), the later ones I abandoned either because I already had the next book and I was too excited to finish the old one or because something stupid happened and I wanted to dump the old one so I could get on with my life. Then there's the one I'm working on now that hasn't been written in in months. (Westley and I were musing on that; we talk to each other, or write it in a blog, or write it out on facebook if it's not that important, and purge our demons that way.) All of them but the last reside in a nondescript box in an undisclosed location in plain sight. I'm brilliant like that.

I always thought I'd keep them because some poor soul, some day, might want to read them. Not until I'm dead, of course. I've already suffered the consequences of letting friends and idiots read one while I've been alive. I learned this (repeatedly):

NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES FROM LETTING SOMEONE READ YOUR DIARY.

Yeah, I'm seriously starting to question my intelligence, too. But remember: One Long Panic Attack. Just keep it in the back of your mind.

Did you know I wrote some of my diary in Runic so people couldn't read it? I got paranoid.

But I'll let them read it after I'm dead. I figure that way, I'll be too occupied to give a crap about how stupid/broken/panicked/retarded they'll inevitably think I am.

Not that I should have to wait until I'm dead to not give a crap about what people think or say. But that's not a topic for here. That's for my diary.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Sometime, maybe Sunday when I have time, I'm going to go through that crappy old box and dig up some visually interesting fodder. I'll scan those b*tches, and upload them both here and to that project. And no, there won't be anything that can come back to bite me. I have Photoshop and I'm not afraid to use it. To blur out names and stuff.

Ooo. I'm tired again.

Just in time for the sun to come up.

And for oatmeal to sound appetizing.

Yeah.

Quick Random Thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 22:55:00 +0000

I'm a bad speller today.

What I'm feeling:

Relief: the three major class assignments are due NEXT thursday, not THIS thursday. *whew*

Frustration: Why is it everything I swear will never happen to me eventually does? When I was small, I saw a lady with saddle bags and I swore it wouldn't happen to me. Guess who has saddle bags? I swore in the 5th grade I'd never like Chris Bundas, guess who was my first boyfriend?

Content?: New toys are either in my possession (keyboard/mouse, monitor, pen tablet) or are coming soon (new phone. only wish it was an iPhone, but AT&T sux here).

must run bbl.

kthxbai

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 14:16:00 +0000

The students are gone. I would express joy but that it wouldn't be completely encompassing of my feelings. I love lots of my students. Some of them I was happy to see go.

After they were gone, they had a retirement luncheon. And after the speeches (many of which made me cry because the speakers, particularly Gretchen, were entirely losing it-- you would have thought with her expression that someone had died.. there was no better way to describe the overall impression she gave than utter loss), they then turned their attention to those of us who would be leaving the building, some of us to go to new jobs, some not. I cried then, too. Mostly because I was embarrassed to have to stand up and get my goodbye card. And also because I was still picturing Gretchen's face as she was trying to explain how much she respected and was going to miss Chelly.

I am required to go back Monday to finish up (I'm guessing it's going to take more than a half day to do this) but I'm going to go in at the butt crack of dawn and get it all over with. Or at least I'm going to try. Once teachers start showing up, I can forget having time to do things for my job because I'll be busy dealing with everyone else's. Such is the life of a librarian.

As it turns out, as of right now, I have a job in the district next year. Teaching art in one building and library/technology another. However, another teacher who has more seniority than I do caught wind of it, and since she is qualified for those jobs and is getting laid off completely, plans to grieve it. But then, I guess with the new state retirement incentives, there are 8 teachers leaving, which might mean she won't have to.

I need help. For my photoshop class, we have to do a tabloid cover, and I need ideas. I have few, but I always feel mine are either too soft or too inappropriate. The one I'm working now is the gulf oil spill affecting farmville... And Gary Bussey laughing himself into a coma; world rejoices. People I'd love to use: Trekkies, ComicCon geeks, vanilla ice, lady gaga, angelina jolie (*yark*), Amy Winehouse, MaryKate & Ashley, Chuck Norris, Pinky and the Brain... But I don't know what to do with them. Help?

Must run. I'm sure there's something that's else I should be doing... like watching those eggs on the stove..

crap. I hate the smell of overcooked eggs.

Progress... or not

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 23:42:00 +0000

It's time to go back to the Oriental Store (I'm not being racist-- that's the name of the business) and get some more Mitsuya Cider candies. And then down to Coldwater to get some more Damla. And if that doesn't keep my sweet tooth content for the summer, I don't know what will.

I signed up just in time for a class at the community college. It's Photoshop-- something that I'm very interested in getting to know really well. Apparently a Photoshop class will satisfy the requirements to renew my professional teaching certification, if that makes any sense.

I don't know why I'm bothering to renew it. I don't think I want to be in education anymore. At least not the kind that requires certification. Certainly not the kind that requires managing more than 10 kids at a time. I'm despondent and this lack of enthusiasm for my trade is disturbing to me. I used to get geeked about teaching something, of creating understanding in my students. I'd get giddy just thinking about watching the lights go on. Now I am unable to take work home with me; it won't get touched-- it brings on too much guilt to dampen my good weekend spirits. I'm counting down the days until I never have to go back, loving the idea of walking out the door for the last time. Snapping at kids left and right to keep them in line, but knowing I'm failing at it. Being very harsh in my criticisms of myself and confident only in that I have no confidence in myself as a teacher or even a library media specialist anymore. I am a statistic. Many of these statistics, in fact.

Yeah, I know. Cry me a river. I could blame a lot of factors- work environment, poor teacher training, my own idealism and naivete, falling through the cracks... I guess I just shoulda known better. Asked more questions. Demanded more. But how could I have known? I didn't know what I didn't know, you know?

Just to make it clear: I dig the kids. They have so many great ideas, so much enthusiasm, and some of them just need to know that there are adults out there who don't have to be control freaks. So many kids that just need someone to listen to them without being critical or judgmental. Empathy is what gets me "in" with the kids who fearlessly tell other teachers to f*ck off and wouldn't think twice of hitting one. I love 'em. And I think they love me, too. ...Obviously in a professional/mentor/mentee kinda way, NOT romantic... I mean, seriously: EW.

But back to the topic, I guess what I have to do is consider what I got:

I have a fancy camera, a fancy computer with photoshop, a decent working knowledge of both, a steady hand that draws pretty damn well, good communication skills and hella good customer service skills. Oh yeah, a professional teaching certificate, a master's degree with an emphasis in technology, a library media endorsement, and a few years teaching and library experience.

Outside of teaching, what am I qualified to do?

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 19:34:00 +0000

My resume hasn't been updated since 2007. Yikes.

There's a library opening at the local community college. I technically don't have the right degree. I have a master's of ed with a library media endorsement and they want an masters of library information science. I didn't realize when I paid 20 grand for my master's that I was limiting myself to school libraries only-- that's what I get when I don't do my homework. I should have gone to U of M or Wayne State.

Yes, I'm a closet U of M fan. If for no other reason than that Macaroni lives in Ann Arbor and that we've hung out downtown/on campus and I love it there. Plus they have the Ann Arbor Film Festival. It's fecking sweet, too. I prefer AA over Chicago, even. Grand Rapids comes in third. Now you know.

Anywho, I'm stalling. I should get back to my resume. Chin up. Think Positive. And all that B.S.

But first, who the heck re-recorded Magic by the Cars?! Oh god, it's from the soundtrack from the Wizards of Waverly Place.

I have to go vomit now. Then get back to work.

I must blog Right. F*ing. Now.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 18:16:00 +0000

You know....

*sigh*

Just a sec.

Sorry. I had to clean my monitor. I was entirely unacceptable.

You remember high school English? Here's a refresher on a term that everyone uses, but many have forgotten how to use properly:

Irony is a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result.
The New Oxford English Dictionary

Today I believe I actually did experience some slight irony. Not full on, but definitely somewhat ironic.

First, I got my pink slip. Sorry, monetary constraints, declining enrollment, etc. Signed by the interim superintendent. Next, I found my congratulatory letter regarding my recent tenure. Also signed by said superintendent.

All this on April Fools day. Can it get any more perfect?

No, I haven't cried yet. And I'm not sure I will. I'm too excited about the opportunity that's sitting in front of me. Exactly what that opportunity is and how it's going to pay my bills, I don't know. Although the local community college just posted a library position. Sounds cool. But I don't have the right degree. I'll apply, but I don't think I'll get it. Not even sure I want it.

I know, I'm calm in the midst of chaos because I don't understand how much trouble I'm in. Whatever will I do? My credit score might end up in the crapper and then the world will cease to exist. Everything will come to a sputtering halt and I will be zapped into some strange, horrid, concentric circle of hell where I'm tempted by everything, think I can buy it, and then realize the nightmare of actually being entirely unable to afford it.

I'm a dreamer. What I'm thinking is that with a bunch of people getting laid off, why can't we pool our talents and do something awesome? Or maybe there's something weird out there for me that would allow me to work outside the box, would let me use my talents and still help people.

To be entirely honest, I don't like teaching in a classroom. To me it's about as natural as ballet dancing barefoot on an unpaved road. ...that's not meant to suggest that kids are the inherently evil or anything like that. I love kids; especially the ones every other teacher "hates." I can get along with any kid-- middle school, early el, sweet, mean, emo or otherwise. But 32 kids all at once? I think I'd rather sing in front of a half-full auditorium. Sans clothing.

But what I hate most is the whole discipline aspect-- it's utterly disconcerting. Someone on my little school library listserv that a lot of teachers were always good kids and don't know how to think like the "bad" kids. I am one of those always-was-a-nice-kid people. My students do something "bad" and often I am taken aback by it. Sometimes I'm stunned beyond words. What good teacher has that problem?!

Overall, though, I'm not a BAD teacher. I can explain information well. I come up with creative lessons that are engaging and hands on. Hell, I do the crazy technology sh*t that scares the hell out of some of the other teachers in my building. I relate to kids really well. I genuinely want to see them succeed. I just feel better in a one on one or small group context. Well, these days of budget cuts in public education, it's not going to happen. Not in any public school context, anyway.

I'm going to forget myself in a Jared Leto movie.

I'm going to find out what Highway is all about.

Guys don't get any hotter than Jared Leto when he weighed something.

Ahh... Netflix streaming thru the Wii on the big screen...

God Bless America!

A note from a reformed book snob

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 17:37:00 +0000

To the clerk at the unnamed independent bookstore:

You answered my questions, and were, for all intents and purposes, polite. What left me feeling uneasy was the book snob vibe that permeated my conscience until I had formulated a pretty solid argument.

I always know I've been had when I want to give a serious @ss chewing to the person who's gotten the better of me (see entire relationship with N). Yes, I realize this shows that I am a slow processor, otherwise, had I found my guts, I would have said something clever in a point making way at the moment. Lucky for you it takes me a while to put things together because I'm always too busy being polite. BUT regardless...

I've been where you're standing. Behind the counter of a thriving independent bookstore. It's something to be proud of. It's an incredible place to be-- surrounded with tons of information, and, if you're careful, you can even take home a perfect copy, read it, and bring it back. For free! And there's no due date, no one else's fingerprints, no bent pages, and no sticky plastic cover with someone else's sneeze residue on it. A new book is a potential wish, an unadulterated escape into someone else's world, and hopefully a far cry from your own. There are only a few other things with less potential. Independent bookstores, to me, are a place of solace that even a church can't match. (Churches create a little tension in me. Can't really explain why.)

I am not a fool. I have a Masters degree. I've read the Pulitzer Prize winners. Pondered the theories of the great philosophers. Contemplated existentialism. Considered others to be less intelligent than I and felt superior.

But to be entirely truthful about this stuff...

Who cares?

Don't think I didn't work with profundity enough. I started to dig into it-- really study up. But I found myself pondering it to the point that I was pensive all the time. Sure, I felt smug and profound, but melancholy.

Which means that I was wasting my energy on it.

I'm generally a happy person. Not giddy-every-morning happy or anything like that, but I'm not the type of person to be dark consistently. And to be worried about whether or not there is a point to anything I do, or what anyone else does, for that matter... well, I can't let it be a worry to me. I believe that things fall apart. I believe that many of the things we do are, in fact, pointless and a waste of time (ahem, Reality TV).

But I refuse to believe that I, as an individual, do not have an impact (however miniscule) on this world. I didn't say earth. I said world. Which includes earth, and all the people, plants, animals, and other stuff it contains. And if I make an impact, how can that be called insignificant? How can that be called pointless?

Maybe that's arrogant. I'll accept that.

And maybe all this is pointless. But the difference I make to my kids, my students, and other people I see every day is the reason I start every day.

And if you'd ever take the time to check out lolcats and failblog, you'd learn that there are a lot of creative people out there. Besides, we all need a reason to smile.

Sincerely,

me.

I had the perfect title, but I forgotted it.

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 02:32:00 +0000

What in the hell have I been doing?

Keeping the health department from classifying the house as one giant biohazard. It's a challenge. But at least the short's room has been clean (by his doing!!) for two weeks now. It's a record. I know.

Laundry. Because people don't take you seriously if you smell "unpleasant" and you're wearing a poly-doghair blend. I don't understand it, but that's what I've heard.

Keeping kids and husbund fed. They're not interested in eating what I eat. Sometimes they fend for themselves while I go get sushi. I don't know what fish I'm eating, but it's all yummy and not all cooked and greasy, so I'm quite content.

Occasionally cleaning up after a dog with some undiagnosed digestion issues. I don't mind except when I find his "issues" not with my eyes but with my bare feet in the middle of the night. Thankfully, that's only happened once. And since we tossed all his dog bones, it hasn't happened again.

Preparing my classes. Trying to make them more meaningful and exciting. How you make a 6th grader care about study skills, though? If anyone has any bright ideas, please enlighten me. And then there's this little pod of girls in my videography class who don't want to be there... they make life interesting. God sends these little challenges to help us grow, they say. I'm growing.

Preparing my library for the interviews for the new superintendent. Yes, they're having interviews in "MY" library. Which, Frankly, is the UGLIEST library in the district. And I'm not saying that to be mean. Every other building in the district has been renovated and their libraries have a comfy updated look to them, and mine is still very 1967 (when the building was built). The furniture is original to the building. The grey, worn carpet is grey. And the chairs are falling apart. There is not much money for books. Some of the shelves are almost empty, but I can't get rid of the shelves, they tell me. Someone painted over the mural at one end of the room. All the walls are white. There are different colored lights in the fixtures. This guy (or lady) is gonna walk in there and say, "crap, the librarian isn't doing her job. screw that. Let's fire her and save ourselves her salary and benefits..." Or I can be positive and think they'll give me more money for books, etc. Who knows, a school renovation might bring up morale in our school-- the students and the teachers.

Training for a triathlon. Shut up. I'm questioning my sanity on that one, too, but I love the challenge. Do you know I ran for 50 minutes straight last week outside? I had to take a couple hits off my inhaler (it was still a little too cold for me), and I actually didn't run while I waited for a red light and some traffic, but I ran it. And I'm still sore (shin splints?), but dammit, I f-ing did it. I never thought I could run 3 miles in a stretch, much less than 3.5. Other than that I've only been doing this for a couple months (building up to it), I don't know why I'm not skinny yet. I need to eat less, I guess?

I went skiing and I loved it. I hated it last time I did it. But that was my freshmen year in high school. Dammit, now I think I'm going to have to get skiis. I'd rather have a newer road bike...

Writing a screenplay for the great american novel I'm trying to cobble together. (I'm thinking of the screenplay as prewriting.) Can you put a romantic side story into a redemption story? I don't want the romance to be the focus. That's where I'm stuck with that.

Otherwise being undisciplined but trying not to be. Hey, my house hasn't been shut down by the health department and all my clothes are clean, and the floor is sanitary. And now the bathtub is white again. And the dishes in the dishwasher are clean. And I'm pretty sure I can classify my family as "happy." So life IS good.

I think it would still be fair to say I'm a little overwhelmed. I haven't even been updating facebook consistently. Summer will be here soon. Then... oh then... life will be even better.

'Night, kids.

We interrupt this insanity for a cheezy update..

noreply@blogger.com (nic) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 21:32:00 +0000

I have Sweet Loraine stuck in my head. For those of you who wonder, Patty Griffin sings that. Really, really well, in fact.

I only can dream of having a voice like hers. When I'm not dreaming, I pretend I actually do and belt it out in the car. Then my throat hurts again, and I'm reminded that I am me and singing isn't in the cards.

The Short just said to me, "Mom? I'm writing a story called Bad Christmas and it's coming out next fall. It'll have some horror."

Sounds great. Bring it on. I'm in a picture posting mood.

Here's the short in his boy scout uniform. He's getting big. And creative. And clever. And he's

still crazy on Saturday mornings before his meds kick in. But he's loving boy scouts, seems to be getting along well at his new school, is getting along with his sissy well (that's what he calls Mimi, and while I appreciate that he calls her sister, the word SISSY in reference to any sister makes me cringe.. don't ask why).

Oh yes, we have a new addition to our family. NO, I'm not pregnant.

She's had a lot of names. Her racing name was Bohemian Source. Except she didn't really care

about racing. Which is why she's living with us now. Her other names she had were Mitch, Midge, Milly, and now Willow. Or Shmii. No, not after Anakin Skywalker's mother. Because Shmii rhymes with "she" and sounds kinda like Schmoo, which is the other dog's nickname. She is a huge baby. She thinks she's a lapdog, but other than that, she's like a big kid... with lots of brains. She annoys the short beyond all reason, who in turn likes to annoy me by constantly reminding me that he is, indeed, a cat person. I guess she has too much energy for him. Which if you've ever been around the short sans meds, you'd be laughing your @ss off about that one...

Oh, Why not. Here's the Schmoo.

His real name is Pete, and he even though he's

12, he is so much more lithe and bouncy now that Shmii's come to stay. He likes to lick her face and in turn, she'll rest her head on his back. Ah, true love. Except that he's so much older... Kinda creepy. But anyway...

He is an awesome dog. Very well mannered, very thoughtful, and very intelligent.

Oh yes, and we also call the cat Schmitty... for kitty. His real name is Pumpkin. Mimi got him

a couple halloweens ago and picked that name for him. He also is very funny. Laying in the sink

and stuff. He also likes to bat at the shower hose and see if he can get any water to drip out of the faucet, he likes to chase people around after dark on his hind legs, he climbs into boxes and backpacks and just lays there, and he can climb the short's loft's ladder and sleeps with the short.

I like this cat. I think it's hilarious when willow tries to pick him up like a chew toy. She doesn't, though, because she's too nice. But she does make him a little soggy. And that's totally worth it.

Westley got a new computer. I'm sorry to say I haven't converted him to Mac yet.

Here's you're awwwwww moment.

I had a stressful day.

I came home, unloaded groceries, and started doing dishes. He came into the kitchen, gave me a hug, and dragged me out to the couch and made me sit down. He covered me with a blanket. Then he brought my computer to me. Then he brought me tea. Hence another overdue blog post.

You can thank him. I did.

I'm going to go look at lolcats now. Lots of em.