@ell, folks, it's May. May is always an exhausting time of the school year. in addition to all of the mayhem (no pun intended) of walking around a building full of roaming hormones, dress code violations, and behavior pushbacks on a daily basis, there is also the frenetic pulse of increased professional responsibilities humming in the background. Filling out end of the year data spread sheets, field trips, schedule planning, supply ordering and trying to purge and close down one's own classroom all suddenly need to be fit in around increasingly needy students. Quite frankly, it's a hot mess.
I find this time of year a little bipolar. Some days, my students are in great moods- funny, lovable, dazzling me with the learning risks they take and the journeys they've traveled as they near the finish line. These moments, I can't imagine how I will survive ten weeks without seeing them; I wistfully hope that they will visit me next year. I wonder who will light up my classroom for me the way so and so did after he graduates or she transitions. Other times...well....those times are trying. Every word I say is met with an eyeroll or an undercutting comment. Behaviors and routines that the students mastered in November are cast aside, and in their place comes a regression of the worst kind. Prepubescent whisperings and gossip coupled with a kindergartener's need to always have attention from SOMEBODY. Spring fever clubs us all over the head. Everyone becomes preoccupied with the lasts. The last project. The last dance. The last grades. The last yearbook.
What nobody ever told me before I started teaching was how much I would grow to love these disgusting (I mean it) balls of angst. How hard I try to savor the last moments of the school year. How frustrated I get when they don't appreciate an end of the year activity I've planned. How much it hurts to have them blow me off and run out the door on the last day of school. How proud I am when I compare their fall to spring data. How I worry about their familylivesstealinghabitsinternetviewingsdrugexposuredatinghabitshygiene when I don't see them every day. How relieved I am when they come back to me the next year. Taller. Friendlier. Full of Summer Stories. Because no matter how much they irritate me, or how ready I am for break, or how outwardly I brag about the small number of schooldays left to my friends, secretly I love this job. I a
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Tuesday Things
1) Last week was Pie-a-Teacher-for-Charity day at my junior high (yep, exactly what it sounds like, run by the student council). After much cajoling by my kiddos, I entered my name in and lo and behold, ALL the punks on the bus entered for a chance to pie me, along with my usual peanuts. Even though none of my eighth grade "special bus friends" won the privilege, they did all make sure to jeer me as I performed my bus duty, whipped cream still in my hair. Punks. Hilarious punks, I tell you.
2) Did you know that having whipped cream in your ear feels like a wet willy you can't quite get rid of? Now you know.
3) I think that one of the unknown seasons in the Midwest has to be Rain and Road Construction. I really think it goes Fall, Winter, RainandConstruction, Spring, Summer. Let me tell you, Focus Pocus and I have spent a LOT of time together sitting between those orange and white cones. I may have to start listening to audiobooks. What should I start with?
4) I am mildly obsessed with the song "Cruise" by Florida-Georgia Line. Except, until I saw the band name in writing, I thought until today their name was "Florida-Georgia Lime." Explains why I can't add them to my summer Pandora station. Oopsies.
5) Spring has arrived at my junior high. Just this week during bus duty, I have received two proposals of marriage, one offer to buy me ice cream from the ice cream man, and several hearty booings as I ask them to sit down and not bring food on the bus. 26 school days.
6) We have graduations three Saturdays in a row in May. Pray for my sanity. I love my siblings, but sweet yeebus. Did they all need to get educated at the SAME time?
7) I've started a new fitness minigoal in May. Every day, at some point, I am going to do 10 minutes of holding a plank. I can start and stop whenever I want, but at the end of the day it has to total ten. Momma needs to get rid of this here muffin top before some upcoming weddings.
8) Speaking of weddings, I just bought this dress at a SUPER discounted price, with tags on eBay for summer weddings. If that's not workout motivation, I don't know what is. It is peeking out in silent judgement daily. So excited. Love it so much.
2) Did you know that having whipped cream in your ear feels like a wet willy you can't quite get rid of? Now you know.
3) I think that one of the unknown seasons in the Midwest has to be Rain and Road Construction. I really think it goes Fall, Winter, RainandConstruction, Spring, Summer. Let me tell you, Focus Pocus and I have spent a LOT of time together sitting between those orange and white cones. I may have to start listening to audiobooks. What should I start with?
4) I am mildly obsessed with the song "Cruise" by Florida-Georgia Line. Except, until I saw the band name in writing, I thought until today their name was "Florida-Georgia Lime." Explains why I can't add them to my summer Pandora station. Oopsies.
5) Spring has arrived at my junior high. Just this week during bus duty, I have received two proposals of marriage, one offer to buy me ice cream from the ice cream man, and several hearty booings as I ask them to sit down and not bring food on the bus. 26 school days.
6) We have graduations three Saturdays in a row in May. Pray for my sanity. I love my siblings, but sweet yeebus. Did they all need to get educated at the SAME time?
7) I've started a new fitness minigoal in May. Every day, at some point, I am going to do 10 minutes of holding a plank. I can start and stop whenever I want, but at the end of the day it has to total ten. Momma needs to get rid of this here muffin top before some upcoming weddings.
8) Speaking of weddings, I just bought this dress at a SUPER discounted price, with tags on eBay for summer weddings. If that's not workout motivation, I don't know what is. It is peeking out in silent judgement daily. So excited. Love it so much.
9) Over the weekend, we had Kev' s 30th birthday
party at US Cellular Field with the White Sox. Photos to come (maybe- I
am an unreliable blogger at best), but we had a blast. The first really nice
spring day, and we were out tailgating. Heaven. I could care less about the
actual game, but I love all the EXPERIENCES of a baseball game. So apple pie.
So classic.
10) I cannot, cannot believe that my guy is going to be turning 30 on
May 6th. I remember his countdown for his sixteenth birthday. Yowza.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Weekdate Night
I have the best husband for me in the entire world. Even so, it's easy for us to flop during the week. We come home from work exhausted, frazzled moreso by our long commutes, and its easy to just throw on sweats, pop on a few hours of streaming Netflix shows, and veg before bed. Once a week though, without either of us saying it, we have a weekdate night.
Last night, we went shopping for a new stove. Purchased it. Celebrated with a more expensive than normal dinner out, where we talked. and talked. and talked. and talked. Later that night, when I suffered another round of frustration with my crazy RA body, he held me while I cried, made me laugh again, and played with my hair while we watched tv.
This past weekend, I went to a bachlorette party where we solicited marriage advice from everyone we came across for the bride to be. From the hot waiter advising her to "just not do it" to the cabdriver that mournfully advised us ladies to always "dress with jeans and makeup" around the house while simultaneously keeping his belly full, we collected some gems. Really, though I think a great marriage comes down to really, always making the other person feel important. Sounds simple, but hard to do. When you live with your one and only day in and day out, the tedious minutae can take over. It's easy to just flop, and take for granted. It's harder to listen when you are tired, harder still to go out of your way.
In the wake of a fall and winter full of losses I never thought I'd sustain, Kev has reminded me over and over to stop. To look around. To take things one day at a time. His biggest complaint about me is that I'm always excited about the next awesome thing. After we booked our Peru tickets and I speculated endlessly about the fabulous things we'd be doing in eight months, Kev slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he drove our battered Ford Focus down Lincoln.
"Just STOP," he implored. "Be HERE. Why do you always need to rush to the next best thing?"
Since then, he's had to remind me of that multiple times. Here isn't bad. Here is quietly wonderful. Six years after our second-first date, he knows what I need. When to listen. When to cut me off. When to let me veg and when to draw me out. I'm the hurricane and he's the eye- a quiet place to rest, a steady pulse forward. He makes me mindful. He reminds me to stop marking time and to start getting my damn head really, honestly back into writing. Into happiness.
And for that, I am a really freaking fortunate gal.
Last night, we went shopping for a new stove. Purchased it. Celebrated with a more expensive than normal dinner out, where we talked. and talked. and talked. and talked. Later that night, when I suffered another round of frustration with my crazy RA body, he held me while I cried, made me laugh again, and played with my hair while we watched tv.
This past weekend, I went to a bachlorette party where we solicited marriage advice from everyone we came across for the bride to be. From the hot waiter advising her to "just not do it" to the cabdriver that mournfully advised us ladies to always "dress with jeans and makeup" around the house while simultaneously keeping his belly full, we collected some gems. Really, though I think a great marriage comes down to really, always making the other person feel important. Sounds simple, but hard to do. When you live with your one and only day in and day out, the tedious minutae can take over. It's easy to just flop, and take for granted. It's harder to listen when you are tired, harder still to go out of your way.
In the wake of a fall and winter full of losses I never thought I'd sustain, Kev has reminded me over and over to stop. To look around. To take things one day at a time. His biggest complaint about me is that I'm always excited about the next awesome thing. After we booked our Peru tickets and I speculated endlessly about the fabulous things we'd be doing in eight months, Kev slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he drove our battered Ford Focus down Lincoln.
"Just STOP," he implored. "Be HERE. Why do you always need to rush to the next best thing?"
Since then, he's had to remind me of that multiple times. Here isn't bad. Here is quietly wonderful. Six years after our second-first date, he knows what I need. When to listen. When to cut me off. When to let me veg and when to draw me out. I'm the hurricane and he's the eye- a quiet place to rest, a steady pulse forward. He makes me mindful. He reminds me to stop marking time and to start getting my damn head really, honestly back into writing. Into happiness.
And for that, I am a really freaking fortunate gal.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Brain Break?
If you have been anywhere near a teacher in Illinois, you know that
this past week was ISAT week. A week in which students take multiple
tests daily to measure how much we, as their educators have taught them.
It is hard for me to explain to them why, exactly, they should do their
best on these tests, particularly for the eighth graders, whose high
school placements have come and gone, but I try. Many of my kids
struggle- the linguistically modified version of the test does not
appear to be particularly modified, and my people all read below grade
level. It is stressful. But that's not really what this post is about-
I'm trying not to dwell on the bs I can't change. It's a new thing I'm
doing. I'll let you know how it works out.
During testing weeks, the students test in the morning and the rest of the day is truncated. The students are fried when they leave testing. Different teachers do different things with these slush days. Some show movies related to the curriculum. Others (like me) give a bigger, long term assignment for the week and lots of work time, so that the students can proceed at their own pace. However, on the Friday after testing, you can always find my students and I doing one thing: playing games.
Because my kiddos didn't grow up in the United States, they are missing some crucial experiences with Americana. They've never felt the sheer joy of bumping another pawn while delivering a sarcastically drawn out "Sorry." They've never agonized over which home to purchase in Life. They've never tried to cheat and use words creatively in Scattergories, or tried to figure out whether a classmate would deem Albert Einstein or bees are more cheerful in Apples to Apples. They don't know how to trash talk. I would bet none of them have ever threatened to flip a board game in sheer anger over the outcome of a game.
The truth is, when I stop to think about it, that I'm not sure how many "real" American kids have these experiences any more, either. Yes, my husband and I adore playing Monopoly on the iPad (it's fast! it does the math for you! you can auto mortgage), but in doing so, we miss out on the experience of actively plotting against one another. Of calculating and recalculating what to mortgage just to strategize based on the intricacies of the other's game. Games on the iPad feel cleaner, so the trash talking by extension becomes more clinical. Minimal. Cold.
Maybe I'm nostalgic, but when I think back of visiting my grandparents, we always played real honest-to-goodness playing cards. One of the few memories I have of my paternal grandfather is him teaching me how to play chess, slowly. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Kev and I still play Gin Rummy at the highs and lows of our lives: everywhere from on our honeymoon to waiting in the doctor's office for scary news. When you are sitting and looking your opponent in the eye without turn timers and with literal objects with which you can defeat them, you gain an experience of shared joy and triumph that playing the same game on an iPad or tablet may not offer. It's more personal. You are more invested in the outcome because you've really seen every reaction to your moves.
So, we play. I get to appreciate my students in new and different lights. Turns out, the girl who cheated on a major test last week is a strategic whiz kid at Sorry, who can beat me handily twice before I even get one piece out of start. The quietest kid in my room is the best at reading people, and always collects the most green Apples to Apples cards. It might not help these peanuts pass the ISAT, but I'll fight hard for the opportunity for an occasional "brain break" any day. Playing a physically present game allows them to present their thinking to me in a whole new light.
Plus, sometimes I get to kick their butts.
During testing weeks, the students test in the morning and the rest of the day is truncated. The students are fried when they leave testing. Different teachers do different things with these slush days. Some show movies related to the curriculum. Others (like me) give a bigger, long term assignment for the week and lots of work time, so that the students can proceed at their own pace. However, on the Friday after testing, you can always find my students and I doing one thing: playing games.
Because my kiddos didn't grow up in the United States, they are missing some crucial experiences with Americana. They've never felt the sheer joy of bumping another pawn while delivering a sarcastically drawn out "Sorry." They've never agonized over which home to purchase in Life. They've never tried to cheat and use words creatively in Scattergories, or tried to figure out whether a classmate would deem Albert Einstein or bees are more cheerful in Apples to Apples. They don't know how to trash talk. I would bet none of them have ever threatened to flip a board game in sheer anger over the outcome of a game.
The truth is, when I stop to think about it, that I'm not sure how many "real" American kids have these experiences any more, either. Yes, my husband and I adore playing Monopoly on the iPad (it's fast! it does the math for you! you can auto mortgage), but in doing so, we miss out on the experience of actively plotting against one another. Of calculating and recalculating what to mortgage just to strategize based on the intricacies of the other's game. Games on the iPad feel cleaner, so the trash talking by extension becomes more clinical. Minimal. Cold.
Maybe I'm nostalgic, but when I think back of visiting my grandparents, we always played real honest-to-goodness playing cards. One of the few memories I have of my paternal grandfather is him teaching me how to play chess, slowly. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Kev and I still play Gin Rummy at the highs and lows of our lives: everywhere from on our honeymoon to waiting in the doctor's office for scary news. When you are sitting and looking your opponent in the eye without turn timers and with literal objects with which you can defeat them, you gain an experience of shared joy and triumph that playing the same game on an iPad or tablet may not offer. It's more personal. You are more invested in the outcome because you've really seen every reaction to your moves.
So, we play. I get to appreciate my students in new and different lights. Turns out, the girl who cheated on a major test last week is a strategic whiz kid at Sorry, who can beat me handily twice before I even get one piece out of start. The quietest kid in my room is the best at reading people, and always collects the most green Apples to Apples cards. It might not help these peanuts pass the ISAT, but I'll fight hard for the opportunity for an occasional "brain break" any day. Playing a physically present game allows them to present their thinking to me in a whole new light.
Plus, sometimes I get to kick their butts.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
10 Things Tuesday
1) First and most importantly, we have a snow day today. Stolen from Jessica, I am currently documenting the day with one picture per hour. Really, I want to play with my new camera lens- I'm not actually expecting people to be fascinated by how little...I mean much...I do when left to my own devices.
2) I love to mess around in the kitchen, but I enjoy it the most when Kev is not home. You see, he is a beyond excellent cook, and he wants to help me, but he ends up just making me nervous. I will say, I am the by far better baker of the two of us.
3) Somehow, I have a butt ton of oats in this house. Send me your favorite recipes, please. They are taking up too much space on our counter. I think I bought them in a fit of I'm-going-to-be-healthy and then they lost the battle of I'm-too-sleepy-to-cook-myself-breakfast-at-5-am. Oops.
4) I'm reading my first Stephen King book, 11/22/63, and I have to say, I'm a bit underwhelmed by the writing. I know people are obsessed with him, and I even know a girl who has his face tattooed on his arm, but I don't get it. Plots? Maybe I need to get into this one farther before I judge.
5) I wish Smash and Nashville were on every day. In unrelated news, I also wish I had Connie Britton's hair and Megan Hilty's swagger. Oh, and that I lived in a world where everyone broke out in song constantly, not just me.
6) Do you read this blog and have rheumatoid arthritis? If you are an RA badass like me, take this survey. We are actually getting asked OUR opinions on something. Yay. Do it.
7) I made this amazing and easy beer mac and cheese for Kev's and my date day Saturday. Yes, date DAY. We started with brunch, napped, watched three movies, ate beer mac, and followed it up with Pixies and wine for dessert. So wonderful. So fat kid. This is why I have to be so darn healthy during the week.
8) My cats spent the entire morning FREAKING out at the approaching storm, and then when it actually started to snow, they curled up on the couch together and have been asleep for the last ninety minutes. I guess there are only so many times you can claw your owner's face and/or jump into the washer and/or sprint around the house before you wipe yourself out. Weirdos.
9) It really irks me when people give shout outs to their or other children on Facebook. Example: "Birthday shoutout to my favorite five year old princess, Avery" Um, no. This child is not on Facebook, you are doing it to impress her parent(s). If you really want to make the kid feel special, pick up the damn phone and call her. SHE IS NOT FOLLOWING YOUR STATUS UPDATES. File this under irrational social media irks next to people posting their ultrasound pictures. If I have to see another uterus on my newsfeed, I'm going to start posting MY internal organs. Starting with the spleen.
10) That's all I got. Time to go paint my toes. Happy Tuesday!
2) I love to mess around in the kitchen, but I enjoy it the most when Kev is not home. You see, he is a beyond excellent cook, and he wants to help me, but he ends up just making me nervous. I will say, I am the by far better baker of the two of us.
3) Somehow, I have a butt ton of oats in this house. Send me your favorite recipes, please. They are taking up too much space on our counter. I think I bought them in a fit of I'm-going-to-be-healthy and then they lost the battle of I'm-too-sleepy-to-cook-myself-breakfast-at-5-am. Oops.
4) I'm reading my first Stephen King book, 11/22/63, and I have to say, I'm a bit underwhelmed by the writing. I know people are obsessed with him, and I even know a girl who has his face tattooed on his arm, but I don't get it. Plots? Maybe I need to get into this one farther before I judge.
5) I wish Smash and Nashville were on every day. In unrelated news, I also wish I had Connie Britton's hair and Megan Hilty's swagger. Oh, and that I lived in a world where everyone broke out in song constantly, not just me.
6) Do you read this blog and have rheumatoid arthritis? If you are an RA badass like me, take this survey. We are actually getting asked OUR opinions on something. Yay. Do it.
7) I made this amazing and easy beer mac and cheese for Kev's and my date day Saturday. Yes, date DAY. We started with brunch, napped, watched three movies, ate beer mac, and followed it up with Pixies and wine for dessert. So wonderful. So fat kid. This is why I have to be so darn healthy during the week.
8) My cats spent the entire morning FREAKING out at the approaching storm, and then when it actually started to snow, they curled up on the couch together and have been asleep for the last ninety minutes. I guess there are only so many times you can claw your owner's face and/or jump into the washer and/or sprint around the house before you wipe yourself out. Weirdos.
9) It really irks me when people give shout outs to their or other children on Facebook. Example: "Birthday shoutout to my favorite five year old princess, Avery" Um, no. This child is not on Facebook, you are doing it to impress her parent(s). If you really want to make the kid feel special, pick up the damn phone and call her. SHE IS NOT FOLLOWING YOUR STATUS UPDATES. File this under irrational social media irks next to people posting their ultrasound pictures. If I have to see another uterus on my newsfeed, I'm going to start posting MY internal organs. Starting with the spleen.
10) That's all I got. Time to go paint my toes. Happy Tuesday!
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
10 Things Tuesday
1) I got my hair trimmed today in the suburb where I used to live, by the same gal that has cut my hair for nearly 10 years. She looks like Barbie, boobs and all, and I look like...well...me. We are an amazing team and have a surprising amount to talk about. Talk about an odd couple, but damn if that woman doesn't know my hair.
2) Afterwards, I went to Marianos and bought ALL OF THE THINGS. Discount Cheez-its, a teensy pot-pie for Kev and I, stuffed portabellos. Yes, I could make all of those things, but they were just so cute and affordable. I think I'm in trouble when the one behind my house goes in.
3) A fantastical work friend and I got roped into a committee with the person I am most scared of in my entire professional life right now. I made myself busy taking notes on google docs. Gotta stay out of the line of fire somehow.
4) Speaking of work, I put up the classroom March calendar on my door today and marked spring break. You would have thought I marked free-unfortunately-patterned-skater-hoodie-or-dark-eyeliner-plus-straight-A-giveaway day. Chill, people. We still have 6 weeks to go.
5) I vividly remember sitting on a bus to Jackson Hole with Iowa's Ski Club and shrieking "SB '05!!!" while clutching my first lukewarm beer of umpteen on the 18+ hour coach bus ride. Sweet yebus. I think this year I'm going to yell "SB '13" obnoxiously on my road trip with my husband and favorite father in law as we head up to Minnesota to see my brother in law and his gal pal. They should love that. Maybe I can bring a warm PBR?
6) Two weeks ago, I started a diet and exercise challenge with two friends. Winner gets $100 bucks. What came today? Why, my order of six boxes of Girl Scout cookies. For Kev and I. Self-sabotage, you are my truest friend.
7) We also have a two pound box of Fannie May Pixies in our fridge, courtesy of my mother in law. Help me.
8) Let's be honest, if I won that $100, I would probably just spend it on Pixies and Girl Scout cookies anyway. My inner fat kid rages are strong.
9) It's not like I need to be bikini ready for SB '13 BITCHES. Minnesota don't care none.
10) No, no. Sssshhhhh inner fat kid, calm yourself. Think of all the Bare Minerals and fancy hair products you could buy with $100. Actually, think of the gloating you will be able to do. That may be what really fuels you anyway. You do love to gloat.....maybe you should just gift Pixies and Girl Scout cookies to your competitors.
Yes, that's the ticket. Glad we had this talk, invisible friends. Thanks for the ideas.
2) Afterwards, I went to Marianos and bought ALL OF THE THINGS. Discount Cheez-its, a teensy pot-pie for Kev and I, stuffed portabellos. Yes, I could make all of those things, but they were just so cute and affordable. I think I'm in trouble when the one behind my house goes in.
3) A fantastical work friend and I got roped into a committee with the person I am most scared of in my entire professional life right now. I made myself busy taking notes on google docs. Gotta stay out of the line of fire somehow.
4) Speaking of work, I put up the classroom March calendar on my door today and marked spring break. You would have thought I marked free-unfortunately-patterned-skater-hoodie-or-dark-eyeliner-plus-straight-A-giveaway day. Chill, people. We still have 6 weeks to go.
5) I vividly remember sitting on a bus to Jackson Hole with Iowa's Ski Club and shrieking "SB '05!!!" while clutching my first lukewarm beer of umpteen on the 18+ hour coach bus ride. Sweet yebus. I think this year I'm going to yell "SB '13" obnoxiously on my road trip with my husband and favorite father in law as we head up to Minnesota to see my brother in law and his gal pal. They should love that. Maybe I can bring a warm PBR?
6) Two weeks ago, I started a diet and exercise challenge with two friends. Winner gets $100 bucks. What came today? Why, my order of six boxes of Girl Scout cookies. For Kev and I. Self-sabotage, you are my truest friend.
7) We also have a two pound box of Fannie May Pixies in our fridge, courtesy of my mother in law. Help me.
8) Let's be honest, if I won that $100, I would probably just spend it on Pixies and Girl Scout cookies anyway. My inner fat kid rages are strong.
9) It's not like I need to be bikini ready for SB '13 BITCHES. Minnesota don't care none.
10) No, no. Sssshhhhh inner fat kid, calm yourself. Think of all the Bare Minerals and fancy hair products you could buy with $100. Actually, think of the gloating you will be able to do. That may be what really fuels you anyway. You do love to gloat.....maybe you should just gift Pixies and Girl Scout cookies to your competitors.
Yes, that's the ticket. Glad we had this talk, invisible friends. Thanks for the ideas.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Getaway
We went away this weekend, just Kev and I, up to my parents' lake house in a very tiny part of Wisconsin. Usually when we go up, the house is filled to the gills with my family, or we choose to invite as many friends as will fit. But not this time. This time it was just us two.
We drank champagne and ate frozen pizza. We dove into a box of Pixies and made hot chocolate spiked with marshmallow vodka and added Frango mints to that. I whooped his behind at Monopoly, then again at cards. I wolfed down two cheesy YA novels (Crossed, by Allie Condie- disappointing end to a trilogy, and The Indigo Spell by Richelle Mead, who I unapologetically love when I need Twinkie books). He read The Economist. We talked.
More than any of that though, we listened. To each other. To country music. To snow crunching on a frozen lake. To our eighteen (yes, I said eighteen) year old bartender's unspoken-yet-heard nerves about having her first party at her parents' house and getting ready for college. To an elderly man at the bar talk about his cheesemaking days on that same lake forty years ago, and his pride in his childrens' accomplishments. To how much we need each other. Love each other. Respect each other.
I'm trying to learn to value the listening more. I've always been known for being a notorious talker, but I'm beginning to realize how much I miss this way. I don't get to know other people's thinking or experiences, because I'm busy sharing mine. The truth is, sometimes I'm scared to listen. It's uncontrollable. Unpredictable. I might hear something I don't like, or something I don't like to think about. Putting myself out there is much easier for me. I can control the pace the conversation moves, what kind of mood we have.
I think listening is letting go. I'm always pleasantly surprised by what I hear, whether it be a plan to drink Mike's Hard Lemonade for 12 hours (oh, 18 year old bartender who has never had a hangover, I think your luck may have changed), or about hidden artesianal cheese wells in a tiny lake town. Most of all, I open myself up to letting my husband and others I love surprise me. For a teacher, especially, I suck at listening, but I'm working on it. It's hard, so hard, for me. I'm trying to get better.
I'm glad I had a weekend to re-learn to listen, and a husband smart enough to remind me to do it.
We drank champagne and ate frozen pizza. We dove into a box of Pixies and made hot chocolate spiked with marshmallow vodka and added Frango mints to that. I whooped his behind at Monopoly, then again at cards. I wolfed down two cheesy YA novels (Crossed, by Allie Condie- disappointing end to a trilogy, and The Indigo Spell by Richelle Mead, who I unapologetically love when I need Twinkie books). He read The Economist. We talked.
More than any of that though, we listened. To each other. To country music. To snow crunching on a frozen lake. To our eighteen (yes, I said eighteen) year old bartender's unspoken-yet-heard nerves about having her first party at her parents' house and getting ready for college. To an elderly man at the bar talk about his cheesemaking days on that same lake forty years ago, and his pride in his childrens' accomplishments. To how much we need each other. Love each other. Respect each other.
I'm trying to learn to value the listening more. I've always been known for being a notorious talker, but I'm beginning to realize how much I miss this way. I don't get to know other people's thinking or experiences, because I'm busy sharing mine. The truth is, sometimes I'm scared to listen. It's uncontrollable. Unpredictable. I might hear something I don't like, or something I don't like to think about. Putting myself out there is much easier for me. I can control the pace the conversation moves, what kind of mood we have.
I think listening is letting go. I'm always pleasantly surprised by what I hear, whether it be a plan to drink Mike's Hard Lemonade for 12 hours (oh, 18 year old bartender who has never had a hangover, I think your luck may have changed), or about hidden artesianal cheese wells in a tiny lake town. Most of all, I open myself up to letting my husband and others I love surprise me. For a teacher, especially, I suck at listening, but I'm working on it. It's hard, so hard, for me. I'm trying to get better.
I'm glad I had a weekend to re-learn to listen, and a husband smart enough to remind me to do it.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Cozy
One of my favorite types of days in my classroom is a type that is hard to explain. I adore the days when the weather outside my windows is awful. One would think that this makes the kids ping-pong-y, but it doesn't. Not really. After the requisite 10 minutes of chatter about the weather, the switch flips. We settle into my narrow basement den covered, literally, in words, and we take a little break from the routine. We read what we feel. We write in our journals. We talk <> about what we are reading and writing.
I'm not sure if it is because as a teacher, I'm not racing home to my lovehousekittensworkoutsnackserrands, but rather dreading the sure to be lengthy commute home. Maybe in the midst of procrastinating a commute, I can take a step back and really see the thoughtful, painful growingish kiddos I'm surrounded with. Maybe we are all just a bit more mindful of being warm and dry. Maybe we are all just in plain better moods because of the prospect of a snow day, so we appreciate each other more. I'm not sure what it is, but it happens without fail every time the lacy cornflake snow starts whispering down.
I had a full on chat with a student today about music. What she likes. Pandora. What I like. Whether I sing in the car (duh). At the end of it, I was left thinking about the lovely person I've seen this student become. What lovely people are hiding under all of their stinky, hormone infested selves. What a lovely person they push me to try to be. And then I had a chat with a friend, came home, and wondered.
People from the Midwest wonder constantly: would we appreciate the winter if we had summer all the time? We Midwesterners staunchly insist that the winter makes us more appreciative, less likely to squander the sunshine. And yet, I don't think that's quite it. Rather, I think that winter offers us more chances to be better. It subtly refocuses us by re-arranging the timelines we get things done in. It tsks us via shrinking waistbands that we need to eat more vegetables before bathing suit season. We rest. We drink wine and eat rich foods. We cuddle. We read. We think deep thoughts and hibernate. We get ready to reinvent ourselves in the summer as people who go to funky neighborhoods and fests and wear sundresses and aviators and cowboy boots and glitter all at once.
Winter pushes my buttons, but it also pushes me forward.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
10 Things Tuesday
1) I currently have a $50 wager going with two of my favorite people to clean up my act. Diet, yes, but fitness, healthy habits, and the like. Yesterday I was full of the euphoria that comes with the promise of cash winnings and a hot bod. Today I am still thinking wistfully about the cheese bagel that I didn't take at my team meeting this morning.....even though it's almost 11 hours later.
2) We got a Roomba for Christmas. I love this thing. A lot. Works wonders, even with our two cats. Super entertaining drinking game. Kev, however, is a little concerned about letting it roam freely when we are not home, so every once in a while I come home to find a barricade of laundry baskets confining Roombie to our living room. Hilarious.
3) I may be the only weirdo out there, but I am loving all the snow that Chicagoland is getting this week. Trees dusted in snow take my breath away. Stop bitching, people.
4) I have one streak of gray hair right in the front that I can not get to go away for any more than two weeks with box dyes. I really, really don't want to have to shell out money to the pros. Help.
5) I got a gel manicure the Friday before Christmas. I just took the polish off....yesterday. So classy. Good thing it was a subtle shade of.....glitter.
6) I re-read The Giver for the umpteenth time and my mind is still blown. I may spend my long weekend next weekend reading the three books in the (whoa) SERIES that have been written since I read it in grade school, then re-read it in college. Mind. Blown.
7) Tumblr might be the best thing ever. New favorite: Les Mean Girls... two of my favorite things combined.
8) I have a major girl crush on Jennifer Lawrence. I have decided I am growing my hair out because I think it is a similar texture, etc. to hers. I'd think about prying open my wallet if I could have rad highlights like hers.
9) Smash tonight? Anyone? I am stupidly obsessed with this show. Kev has purposely planned to do his two hours of traffic school online tonight while I watch so he has an excuse to not be in the same room. Hoping for lots of jazz and few power ballads tonight.
10) I cannot wait until my "day off day" for my diet. I am going to eat all of the things. All of them. On that note, I shall leave you while I go make an egg white omlette. Sigh.
2) We got a Roomba for Christmas. I love this thing. A lot. Works wonders, even with our two cats. Super entertaining drinking game. Kev, however, is a little concerned about letting it roam freely when we are not home, so every once in a while I come home to find a barricade of laundry baskets confining Roombie to our living room. Hilarious.
3) I may be the only weirdo out there, but I am loving all the snow that Chicagoland is getting this week. Trees dusted in snow take my breath away. Stop bitching, people.
4) I have one streak of gray hair right in the front that I can not get to go away for any more than two weeks with box dyes. I really, really don't want to have to shell out money to the pros. Help.
5) I got a gel manicure the Friday before Christmas. I just took the polish off....yesterday. So classy. Good thing it was a subtle shade of.....glitter.
6) I re-read The Giver for the umpteenth time and my mind is still blown. I may spend my long weekend next weekend reading the three books in the (whoa) SERIES that have been written since I read it in grade school, then re-read it in college. Mind. Blown.
7) Tumblr might be the best thing ever. New favorite: Les Mean Girls... two of my favorite things combined.
8) I have a major girl crush on Jennifer Lawrence. I have decided I am growing my hair out because I think it is a similar texture, etc. to hers. I'd think about prying open my wallet if I could have rad highlights like hers.
9) Smash tonight? Anyone? I am stupidly obsessed with this show. Kev has purposely planned to do his two hours of traffic school online tonight while I watch so he has an excuse to not be in the same room. Hoping for lots of jazz and few power ballads tonight.
10) I cannot wait until my "day off day" for my diet. I am going to eat all of the things. All of them. On that note, I shall leave you while I go make an egg white omlette. Sigh.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Mindful
Well, long lost friends, I needed to take a breather there. For a while, bad things happened. And kept happening. And for a bit, I was thinking deep thoughts and feeling big feelings and I just needed some clear head space. I wasn't really ready to write about what was going on in my life, and honestly, I may never publish some of the things that happened. Grief can be a long, dark tunnel, and your brain has a funny way of shutting out all but the non-essential until you are ready to take shaky baby steps back into the strange new world that is your life. Honestly, I've never been happier to celebrate a new year than I was this year.
And so far, honestly, 2013 has been pretty damn good. I think my journey through dark scary uncertain times gave me the gift of mindfulness. Now, if you know me in real life, you know that I am not the most cautious, thoughtful person by nature. Kev always scolds me for rushing to the end of a situation, rather than appreciating the steps along the way. He often reminds me to slow down, take a breath, look around, think things through. Often, I get 90% of the way into a task, only to forget the last 10% because I've moved on to something else. It is terrible.
A funny thing happened in the middle of my hellacious December, though. It turns out that when you can only take one step, one day, sometimes one hour at a time, that you become more mindful of what that step contains. In taking deep breaths as I proceeded forward, I began to slowly appreciate where I am now. Loved by a fabulous man. Surrounded by an amazing, challenging, rewarding learning community. Enveloped by family and friends that love my flawed, sometimes broken self. I began to put on my mindfulness like a warm sweater, and the here and now began to push back the cold fingers of grief.
I find myself wanting to hang on to this feeling of mindfulness, and to be more present in what I'm doing. To unload the dishwasher while checking for stray tupperware lids in the bottom. To really listen to my students' questions- even the most mundane. To think before I speak, and to be thankful for what I have. It turns out, that in having a path I was traveling suddenly bulldozed by life, I'm becoming able to really experience what I do have slower, deeper, fuller. Funny thing, this life. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but at least I can appreciate the getting there.
A small but mighty gift, indeed.
And so far, honestly, 2013 has been pretty damn good. I think my journey through dark scary uncertain times gave me the gift of mindfulness. Now, if you know me in real life, you know that I am not the most cautious, thoughtful person by nature. Kev always scolds me for rushing to the end of a situation, rather than appreciating the steps along the way. He often reminds me to slow down, take a breath, look around, think things through. Often, I get 90% of the way into a task, only to forget the last 10% because I've moved on to something else. It is terrible.
A funny thing happened in the middle of my hellacious December, though. It turns out that when you can only take one step, one day, sometimes one hour at a time, that you become more mindful of what that step contains. In taking deep breaths as I proceeded forward, I began to slowly appreciate where I am now. Loved by a fabulous man. Surrounded by an amazing, challenging, rewarding learning community. Enveloped by family and friends that love my flawed, sometimes broken self. I began to put on my mindfulness like a warm sweater, and the here and now began to push back the cold fingers of grief.
I find myself wanting to hang on to this feeling of mindfulness, and to be more present in what I'm doing. To unload the dishwasher while checking for stray tupperware lids in the bottom. To really listen to my students' questions- even the most mundane. To think before I speak, and to be thankful for what I have. It turns out, that in having a path I was traveling suddenly bulldozed by life, I'm becoming able to really experience what I do have slower, deeper, fuller. Funny thing, this life. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but at least I can appreciate the getting there.
A small but mighty gift, indeed.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Saving Halloween
Happy Halloween invisible friends! A lot has been going on in the old
personal life, and I just got hit over the head with a hammer when I
realized that grades were due this morning, but I finally feel like I'm
caught up on life and ready for action. My kiddos are watching Corpse
Bride, and we are writing spooky stories and playing with spooky Mad
Libs. So, I finally find myself with the leisure to post. Happy
Halloween, indeed.
I always find myself a bit out of sorts about Halloween. The last few years, I've found myself stuffed into crowded bars looking at girls dressed as a slutty so-and-so and the guys wearing the bare minimum costume necessary to be able to go out tramp-or-treating. Halloween seems to set the women's rights movement back decades.
But then I look at my students. So excited. Hopped up on sugar. Trying to express themselves with something funny or unique. 8th grade football players squeezed into child-sized Spiderman outfits. Girls as Disney princesses, or the more ubiquitous something-in-a-tutu. The ever eye roll inducing regularly clothed kid who proudly announces that he is dressed as a student, or a student genius, if he is particularly plucky.
As much as I hate the adult version of Halloween, my heart is continually warmed by the kid version- even if my "kids" are verging on snarly teenagers replete with a "don't-eff-with-me" attitude. I like to see them drawn out of their hard shells by the promise of sugar and bright colors, howling jack-o-lanterns and a day at school that breaks the routines. Today's teenagers aren't impressed by much, not because they don't care, but because they literally have the entire world at their fingers instantaneously. As teachers, it's hard not to feel the pressure to bring your A-game daily, because if you DON'T grab their interest, something else will. Sometimes we're treated as though we're obsolete. I appreciate the excitement with which my students greeted me today, eager to see what I had decided to dress up as. In short, it's lovely to see kiddos being kiddos, tricking and treating away. So I guess I can't hate Halloween after all.
I always find myself a bit out of sorts about Halloween. The last few years, I've found myself stuffed into crowded bars looking at girls dressed as a slutty so-and-so and the guys wearing the bare minimum costume necessary to be able to go out tramp-or-treating. Halloween seems to set the women's rights movement back decades.
But then I look at my students. So excited. Hopped up on sugar. Trying to express themselves with something funny or unique. 8th grade football players squeezed into child-sized Spiderman outfits. Girls as Disney princesses, or the more ubiquitous something-in-a-tutu. The ever eye roll inducing regularly clothed kid who proudly announces that he is dressed as a student, or a student genius, if he is particularly plucky.
As much as I hate the adult version of Halloween, my heart is continually warmed by the kid version- even if my "kids" are verging on snarly teenagers replete with a "don't-eff-with-me" attitude. I like to see them drawn out of their hard shells by the promise of sugar and bright colors, howling jack-o-lanterns and a day at school that breaks the routines. Today's teenagers aren't impressed by much, not because they don't care, but because they literally have the entire world at their fingers instantaneously. As teachers, it's hard not to feel the pressure to bring your A-game daily, because if you DON'T grab their interest, something else will. Sometimes we're treated as though we're obsolete. I appreciate the excitement with which my students greeted me today, eager to see what I had decided to dress up as. In short, it's lovely to see kiddos being kiddos, tricking and treating away. So I guess I can't hate Halloween after all.
Halloween in Junior High
Happy Halloween invisible friends! A lot has been going on in the old personal life, and I just got hit over the head with a hammer when I realized that grades were due this morning, but I finally feel like I'm caught up on life and ready for action. My kiddos are watching Corpse Bride, and we are writing spooky stories and playing with spooky Mad Libs. So, I finally find myself with the leisure to post. Happy Halloween, indeed.
I always find myself a bit out of sorts about Halloween. The last few years, I've found myself stuffed into crowded bars looking at girls dressed as a slutty so-and-so and the guys wearing the bare minimum costume necessary to be able to go out tramp-or-treating. Halloween seems to set the women's rights movement back decades.
But then I look at my students. So excited. Hopped up on sugar. Trying to express themselves with something funny or unique. 8th grade football players squeezed into child-sized Spiderman outfits. Girls as Disney princesses, or the more ubiquitous something-in-a-tutu. The ever eye roll inducing regularly clothed kid who proudly announces that he is dressed as a student, or a student genius, if he is particularly plucky.
As much as I hate the adult version of Halloween, my heart is continually warmed by the kid version- even if my "kids" are verging on snarly teenagers replete with a "don't-eff-with-me" attitude. I like to see them drawn out of their hard shells by the promise of sugar and bright colors, howling jack-o-lanterns and a day at school that breaks the routines. Today's teenagers aren't impressed by much, not because they don't care, but because they literally have the entire world at their fingers instantaneously. As teachers, it's hard not to feel the pressure to bring your A-game daily, because if you DON'T grab their interest, something else will. Sometimes we're treated as though we're obsolete. I appreciate the excitement with which my students greeted me today, eager to see what I had decided to dress up as. In short, it's lovely to see kiddos being kiddos, tricking and treating away. So I guess I can't hate Halloween after all.
I always find myself a bit out of sorts about Halloween. The last few years, I've found myself stuffed into crowded bars looking at girls dressed as a slutty so-and-so and the guys wearing the bare minimum costume necessary to be able to go out tramp-or-treating. Halloween seems to set the women's rights movement back decades.
But then I look at my students. So excited. Hopped up on sugar. Trying to express themselves with something funny or unique. 8th grade football players squeezed into child-sized Spiderman outfits. Girls as Disney princesses, or the more ubiquitous something-in-a-tutu. The ever eye roll inducing regularly clothed kid who proudly announces that he is dressed as a student, or a student genius, if he is particularly plucky.
As much as I hate the adult version of Halloween, my heart is continually warmed by the kid version- even if my "kids" are verging on snarly teenagers replete with a "don't-eff-with-me" attitude. I like to see them drawn out of their hard shells by the promise of sugar and bright colors, howling jack-o-lanterns and a day at school that breaks the routines. Today's teenagers aren't impressed by much, not because they don't care, but because they literally have the entire world at their fingers instantaneously. As teachers, it's hard not to feel the pressure to bring your A-game daily, because if you DON'T grab their interest, something else will. Sometimes we're treated as though we're obsolete. I appreciate the excitement with which my students greeted me today, eager to see what I had decided to dress up as. In short, it's lovely to see kiddos being kiddos, tricking and treating away. So I guess I can't hate Halloween after all.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Wordless Wednesday- Butthead Edition
Sometimes when I make Kev take pictures of me, he doesn't take the pictures I think he is taking. He thinks he's hilarious....I think he's a butthead. Take this example from Lima, Peru.
I thought he took:
But first he took:
Such. a. butthead. He claims I've never been more attractive.
I thought he took:
But first he took:
Such. a. butthead. He claims I've never been more attractive.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Shit Sandwich
I've been avoiding you, imaginary friends. Mainly because things have kind of sucked lately. I don't think I realized how many crappy things had been going on in the past week or so until my co-worker, H, complimented me on my sparkly shoes.
"Thanks," I replied. "IneedsomesparklebecausemylifesucksandmygrandpagotmovedtohospicecareandKevandIgotjumpedintheparkonMondayandIjustNEEDEDtowearmyglitterTomstoday."
Yep, because that's how rational people respond to compliments.
Sorry, H. Thanks for being a pal. I guess I need to get it all out there.
So, anyways, things have been kind of crappy lately. A real shit sandwich. To make two long stories short, last Sunday my grandpa fell and hit his head. He hadn't been doing so hot before then, but he had to have emergency brain surgery, which he had a 30% chance of coming out of without brain damage. He was in a coma for most of last week, and things have been touch and go since. Knowing that the man who gave me my love of family, hyperbole, ice cream, storytelling, gin, and troublemaking is slowly riding the tide out is tough. It hurts really badly. I just feel like a piece of my childhood is going to. Growing up blows sometimes. Shit sandwich.
Then, this past Monday, Kev and I were cutting through the large, well-lit park at 8:45 pm during the halftime of the Bears game to walk the four blocks home from a friend's house. Laden with work bags and a grocery bag full of leftover snacks, we pass two skinny teenage boys in hoodies who are sitting on a bench together not saying a word. Weird. We walk by, then hear a flurry of footsteps. One punches Kev in the face. He staggers, then they immediately run away. Kev's nose gushes blood, we walk to the corner bar and file a police report. Terrifying. I hate that it happened in my backyard, I hate that I was scared to ride the train and take the bus home after dark (at 7 pm). Most importantly, I hate that Kev got hurt and I was helpless to do anything. Shit sandwich.
But, as with any good sandwich, the shit sandwich is not really about the filling. Which, in this case, is metaphorical poop. Any sandwich is really a good or bad middle surrounded by a soft pillow of bread. As I'm writing this, I'm realizing there is a nice cushiony bun surrounding all this nasty stuff.
My grandpa came out of his coma with no brain damage, and has recognized everyone who visited. Yesterday, when discussing his discharge options from the hospital, after they declared they can't do much for him anymore, he very clearly said "enough's enough." He over and over said he wanted to go home, he was ready for hospice, he knew these were his last days and he was ok with letting go. He gets to end his life the way he has lived it- with bluntness, dignity, and class. In the meantime, I've talked to my siblings nearly daily, a minor miracle considering two of them are in college and the other is in law school. I didn't realize how much I need more of them in my life. Kev has instinctively known what to do for me, and I've realized I can handle the crap with a helping hand.
Which leads me to the other shit- my swollen faced guy. Who immediately after the attack, while he was bleeding, asked me if I was ok and said "I'm fine. I'm just glad they didn't do anything to you." Who does that anyway? My guy. Not to mention they didn't have weapons, nobody was seriously injured, they didn't take anything AND we got the chance to warn a guy walking into the park when we were leaving. We are safe, we have a very secure home, and we learned a healthy lesson about exercising caution. Not to mention, the police called Kev back the very next day to follow up. In the middle of Chicago's most violent year in decades, they responded to our tiny incident promptly and with respect. Thanks, CPD.
So all in all, I think I need to pick my head up a bit. This is life. It is messy. But sometimes, your shit sandwich comes with really delicious bread that makes you appreciate the act of eating all the more.
Thanks for the therapy, imaginary friends.
"Thanks," I replied. "IneedsomesparklebecausemylifesucksandmygrandpagotmovedtohospicecareandKevandIgotjumpedintheparkonMondayandIjustNEEDEDtowearmyglitterTomstoday."
Yep, because that's how rational people respond to compliments.
Sorry, H. Thanks for being a pal. I guess I need to get it all out there.
So, anyways, things have been kind of crappy lately. A real shit sandwich. To make two long stories short, last Sunday my grandpa fell and hit his head. He hadn't been doing so hot before then, but he had to have emergency brain surgery, which he had a 30% chance of coming out of without brain damage. He was in a coma for most of last week, and things have been touch and go since. Knowing that the man who gave me my love of family, hyperbole, ice cream, storytelling, gin, and troublemaking is slowly riding the tide out is tough. It hurts really badly. I just feel like a piece of my childhood is going to. Growing up blows sometimes. Shit sandwich.
Then, this past Monday, Kev and I were cutting through the large, well-lit park at 8:45 pm during the halftime of the Bears game to walk the four blocks home from a friend's house. Laden with work bags and a grocery bag full of leftover snacks, we pass two skinny teenage boys in hoodies who are sitting on a bench together not saying a word. Weird. We walk by, then hear a flurry of footsteps. One punches Kev in the face. He staggers, then they immediately run away. Kev's nose gushes blood, we walk to the corner bar and file a police report. Terrifying. I hate that it happened in my backyard, I hate that I was scared to ride the train and take the bus home after dark (at 7 pm). Most importantly, I hate that Kev got hurt and I was helpless to do anything. Shit sandwich.
But, as with any good sandwich, the shit sandwich is not really about the filling. Which, in this case, is metaphorical poop. Any sandwich is really a good or bad middle surrounded by a soft pillow of bread. As I'm writing this, I'm realizing there is a nice cushiony bun surrounding all this nasty stuff.
My grandpa came out of his coma with no brain damage, and has recognized everyone who visited. Yesterday, when discussing his discharge options from the hospital, after they declared they can't do much for him anymore, he very clearly said "enough's enough." He over and over said he wanted to go home, he was ready for hospice, he knew these were his last days and he was ok with letting go. He gets to end his life the way he has lived it- with bluntness, dignity, and class. In the meantime, I've talked to my siblings nearly daily, a minor miracle considering two of them are in college and the other is in law school. I didn't realize how much I need more of them in my life. Kev has instinctively known what to do for me, and I've realized I can handle the crap with a helping hand.
Which leads me to the other shit- my swollen faced guy. Who immediately after the attack, while he was bleeding, asked me if I was ok and said "I'm fine. I'm just glad they didn't do anything to you." Who does that anyway? My guy. Not to mention they didn't have weapons, nobody was seriously injured, they didn't take anything AND we got the chance to warn a guy walking into the park when we were leaving. We are safe, we have a very secure home, and we learned a healthy lesson about exercising caution. Not to mention, the police called Kev back the very next day to follow up. In the middle of Chicago's most violent year in decades, they responded to our tiny incident promptly and with respect. Thanks, CPD.
So all in all, I think I need to pick my head up a bit. This is life. It is messy. But sometimes, your shit sandwich comes with really delicious bread that makes you appreciate the act of eating all the more.
Thanks for the therapy, imaginary friends.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Shoes as Self
I'm going to DSW today, which means I have to clear about an hour of
my schedule. You think I kid. I do not. For me, going to the Designer
Shoe Warehouse (not Da Sale Warehouse or Da Shoe Warehouse as my
brothers used to truly think it was called) is an exercise in finding a
persona.Yes, these shoe marketeers have got me right where they want me.
Shoes are safe. In a world where fat is reviled and youth is coveted at all costs, there are very few shoe options out there that are veboten to my slightly plump, slightly scarred, not-quite-as-young-as-I-used-to-be self. No matter how much extra weight I've found, my shoe size stays the same. Even if I'm squeezed into something up top that I have no business trying to still pull off, I know that the right pair of favorite shoes will still make me look and feel comely, if only from the knee down. The right pair of shoes can not only change an outfit, but change a mindset.
Speaking of mindset, I truly believe you can infer a lot about a person based on their shoe choice. For instance, a young woman teacher wearing pumps or kitten heels all day at work has almost certainly been teaching less than two years. We veterans grow out of that phase quickly, and our feet thank us for it. A guy wearing Toms is almost certainly confident, loyal and happy. Just ask my husband, who lives in his madras pair three seasons a year. The sandals wearers in any weather over sixty degrees are innate optimists here in Chicago, while the boots-wearers in early September have a deep and emotional connection to their favorite pair; they love the style without the hassle and are practical. My favorite thing to do when I am bored at a large meeting is to look around the room at people's shoes. If you look at a person from the ankle up, you often get a total surprise by the time you arrive at the top: the face doesn't always imagine the chosen shoes in ways you think. Footwear may be the true window of the soul.
Which leads me back to my current DSW conundrum: I need new formal shoes. Previously, I had been rocking my sister's prom shoes. Gold stiletto sandals that matched almost everything. I'm not sure what this borrowed pair said about me: thrifty, with a penache for tacky? Formerly athletic calves with a slight ladylike inclination? I know I'm never going that high again with shoes (not if I'm paying for them, anyway) but I loved the gold because I could use them with multiple dresses. What am I going to choose to reinvent myself as, now that I have successfully worn out my last persona? Classy lady? Vintage vixen? Practical Patty?
To heel or not to heel- that is the real question.
Shoes are safe. In a world where fat is reviled and youth is coveted at all costs, there are very few shoe options out there that are veboten to my slightly plump, slightly scarred, not-quite-as-young-as-I-used-to-be self. No matter how much extra weight I've found, my shoe size stays the same. Even if I'm squeezed into something up top that I have no business trying to still pull off, I know that the right pair of favorite shoes will still make me look and feel comely, if only from the knee down. The right pair of shoes can not only change an outfit, but change a mindset.
Speaking of mindset, I truly believe you can infer a lot about a person based on their shoe choice. For instance, a young woman teacher wearing pumps or kitten heels all day at work has almost certainly been teaching less than two years. We veterans grow out of that phase quickly, and our feet thank us for it. A guy wearing Toms is almost certainly confident, loyal and happy. Just ask my husband, who lives in his madras pair three seasons a year. The sandals wearers in any weather over sixty degrees are innate optimists here in Chicago, while the boots-wearers in early September have a deep and emotional connection to their favorite pair; they love the style without the hassle and are practical. My favorite thing to do when I am bored at a large meeting is to look around the room at people's shoes. If you look at a person from the ankle up, you often get a total surprise by the time you arrive at the top: the face doesn't always imagine the chosen shoes in ways you think. Footwear may be the true window of the soul.
Which leads me back to my current DSW conundrum: I need new formal shoes. Previously, I had been rocking my sister's prom shoes. Gold stiletto sandals that matched almost everything. I'm not sure what this borrowed pair said about me: thrifty, with a penache for tacky? Formerly athletic calves with a slight ladylike inclination? I know I'm never going that high again with shoes (not if I'm paying for them, anyway) but I loved the gold because I could use them with multiple dresses. What am I going to choose to reinvent myself as, now that I have successfully worn out my last persona? Classy lady? Vintage vixen? Practical Patty?
To heel or not to heel- that is the real question.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wedding Attire Dilemma
Oh, friends. I adore a good wedding. So good for the heart and the soul. I love seeing my guy all suited up, holding my hand and charming the friends of mine he has yet to meet. I love listening to the ceremony-silently recommitting in my mind all the reasons I will never, ever give up on this marriage of mine. I love seeing my guy friends grovel into melty mush as their gorgeous ladies come down the aisle. I love the non-traditional weddings with their very realness. I love it all.
But I do NOT love figuring out what to wear for a wedding.
When I was a few years younger, this decision was very easy. I had two go-to dresses (both of which I still own, and both of which fit with some spanx and some oh-my-god-please-cooperate-thighs-its-just-because-I-workout-oh-wait-no-I-have-big-fat-legs-because-they-like-to-chill-on-the-couch-under-an-arm-holding-a-beer) and I attended around two weddings a year-one with family, and one with friends, so life was grand. Now, notsomuch.
This year we have five before the end of the year. Next year, we know of two for sure already. Many of these weddings have a few friends that overlap, so my dress rotation options are limited. I have more dresses now, but I waffle often over which ones I want to wear. I sort of view dresses as the grownup equivalent of high school dances. You get to wear a little more makeup, do something super sweet with your hair, spend the night bopping around the dance floor and hopefully sneaking kisses with your date, and you probably end up with one friend puking. However, some of my friends have had weddings with little kids around. Some are bringing their little kids. Thus, the full fledged cocktail dress of my early 20s is suddenly seeming a little less appropriate.
Case in point: I have a gorgeous, square neck, tulip skirt red dress with pockets that I adore that I bought for a Kev holiday party a few years ago. I love this dress, and people, believe me when I say I look hoooooooooot in it. I wish I had a pic to show you, but I don't. I desperately want to wear it to an adults only wedding next weekend where the reception is at Gibson's downtown. But red? wedding? too much? Too va-va-voom? Probably..... sigh
Then there is the wedding in three weeks. Kev is standing up. The bride has lots of little nephews, nieces and friends with kids who will be attending. Thus, less cocktail-y. Less glam. More family fun, at least to start the evening. Hot red dress....definitely not. But I still want to look good and remind that boy of mine why he locked this down. What to do? How to walk the line?
Ladies in the crowd, how do you decide what kind of dress to wear to a wedding? Yipes.
But I do NOT love figuring out what to wear for a wedding.
When I was a few years younger, this decision was very easy. I had two go-to dresses (both of which I still own, and both of which fit with some spanx and some oh-my-god-please-cooperate-thighs-its-just-because-I-workout-oh-wait-no-I-have-big-fat-legs-because-they-like-to-chill-on-the-couch-under-an-arm-holding-a-beer) and I attended around two weddings a year-one with family, and one with friends, so life was grand. Now, notsomuch.
This year we have five before the end of the year. Next year, we know of two for sure already. Many of these weddings have a few friends that overlap, so my dress rotation options are limited. I have more dresses now, but I waffle often over which ones I want to wear. I sort of view dresses as the grownup equivalent of high school dances. You get to wear a little more makeup, do something super sweet with your hair, spend the night bopping around the dance floor and hopefully sneaking kisses with your date, and you probably end up with one friend puking. However, some of my friends have had weddings with little kids around. Some are bringing their little kids. Thus, the full fledged cocktail dress of my early 20s is suddenly seeming a little less appropriate.
Case in point: I have a gorgeous, square neck, tulip skirt red dress with pockets that I adore that I bought for a Kev holiday party a few years ago. I love this dress, and people, believe me when I say I look hoooooooooot in it. I wish I had a pic to show you, but I don't. I desperately want to wear it to an adults only wedding next weekend where the reception is at Gibson's downtown. But red? wedding? too much? Too va-va-voom? Probably..... sigh
Then there is the wedding in three weeks. Kev is standing up. The bride has lots of little nephews, nieces and friends with kids who will be attending. Thus, less cocktail-y. Less glam. More family fun, at least to start the evening. Hot red dress....definitely not. But I still want to look good and remind that boy of mine why he locked this down. What to do? How to walk the line?
Ladies in the crowd, how do you decide what kind of dress to wear to a wedding? Yipes.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Thankfuls
Um...so...yeah...another month went by with no blogging. A month full
of time with friends, professional development opportunities, a trip to
Vegas with the Gas crowd, and all the general craziness of starting a
new school year. Add to that two malicious kittens who are angry that I
am back at school and peeing accordingly, two new students who are very
high-needs and moved in a week after school started, and a generally
ginormous caseload, and I feel like this is the first time I've sat down
in a month - let alone to blog. Then, I got super stuck in my head
about what to write.
The perfect topic came to me this morning, however, while I was driving to work in Focus Pocus, listening to my very favorite morning radio show. Eric and Kathy are hosting a radioathon for a big children's hospital in Chicago, and along with that, they were broadcasting stories of families with sick children. One story in particular really touched my soul. In it, a woman and her husband discussed the life, and death, of their four year old daughter. They said a lot of really moving things, but mostly they talked about how thankful they were. To take their daughter home on what they thought would be the last night of her life, only to have three months with them where they focused on being happy. "We knew we had the rest of our lives to grieve," said the woman, " but we wanted to focus that moment in being happy, and thankful that we had her." Now, the couple says they still feel they are parents to their daughter by giving back to the hospital and throwing a giant New Years' Eve party there every year. So awesome. But I digress.
This past month, I've been feeling some anxiety. Anxiety over watching my grandfather slow down. Anxiety over managing overwhelming situations at work. Anxiety over worrying about my students on the weekends. Anxiety about my flaring RA. Anxiety over our finances. Gack. So I'm calling today as a time-out day, and I'm going to really try to be thankful instead. To slow down. To re-set the dial and get back to what really matters. I need to zoom out, and see the big picture. So, before this post gets any longer, here are a few of my many thankfuls (in no particular order):
Should this be a weekly/monthly update?
Is anyone even still reading this thing?
The perfect topic came to me this morning, however, while I was driving to work in Focus Pocus, listening to my very favorite morning radio show. Eric and Kathy are hosting a radioathon for a big children's hospital in Chicago, and along with that, they were broadcasting stories of families with sick children. One story in particular really touched my soul. In it, a woman and her husband discussed the life, and death, of their four year old daughter. They said a lot of really moving things, but mostly they talked about how thankful they were. To take their daughter home on what they thought would be the last night of her life, only to have three months with them where they focused on being happy. "We knew we had the rest of our lives to grieve," said the woman, " but we wanted to focus that moment in being happy, and thankful that we had her." Now, the couple says they still feel they are parents to their daughter by giving back to the hospital and throwing a giant New Years' Eve party there every year. So awesome. But I digress.
This past month, I've been feeling some anxiety. Anxiety over watching my grandfather slow down. Anxiety over managing overwhelming situations at work. Anxiety over worrying about my students on the weekends. Anxiety about my flaring RA. Anxiety over our finances. Gack. So I'm calling today as a time-out day, and I'm going to really try to be thankful instead. To slow down. To re-set the dial and get back to what really matters. I need to zoom out, and see the big picture. So, before this post gets any longer, here are a few of my many thankfuls (in no particular order):
- A job that challenges me and inspires me
- Students that make me think
- Having real, strong, enduring relationships with both my grandmas and my grandpa that continue to today
- Kevin- the string to my flyaway kite
- a family that I get closer to as we get older- not the opposite
- a hilarious host of inlaws- especially the Vegas crew and B & B. Love them all.
- two cats that are so happy to have me home with them that they flip out when I leave (I thought only dogs did that?)
- more than I need. In food, in possessions, in money. How many people can say that?
- the opportunity to travel- so important. Points of view have been forever altered
- the ability to read and write in not one but TWO languages
- my faith- even when I question it.
- a body that I can keep healthy(...ier)
- Passions for reading, writing, health, cooking, photography, communication
- friends, friends, friends near and far who enrich my life
Should this be a weekly/monthly update?
Is anyone even still reading this thing?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
10 Things Thursday: Class Edition
I've been in a 9-5 one week, four credit-hour intensive class on emotional and behavioral disorders this week. Yes, that explains the silence over here. Yes, it is as terrible as it sounds. To make up for it, here are ten observations from my time in class.
1) Someday when I'm pregnant, I'm just going to hide in an all natural vegan cave. There is a LOT of crap in the environment that can mess a kid up big time.
2) People will do anything for a reward. I, personally, will take an entire semester of coursework in one week to be rewarded with more free evenings over the total summer. Man, are people (me) fools or what?
3) Why is it so hard to find healthy food in a vending machine? And why can't there be a student fridge so that I can just bring my own darn food?
4) I drink way too much water. Consequently, I foten sit by the door so that I can dash out as needed. Super awkward.
5) Sitting for four hours straight between breaks does not make my rheumatoid arthritis happy. My knees were so stiff yesterday, I tried to get up and almost fell out of the chair. I feel like the freaking Tin Man. Awesome.
6) I have definite pen preferences. Most preferred: Clicky top smooth (ball) point. Next: cap top, smooth tip. Last: scratchy pens that make noise when you write. Hate those.
7) I've invented a new word. classhole: (def) a person who repeatedly moopolizes a class discussion with personal, often arbitrary or unrelated thoughts, ideas, arguements, or diatribes. sample sentence: Mary was a real classhole today when she spoke for 11 minutes straight about her son's journey with ADHD and how much she hates her son's school.
8) Mary is in my class. So are two of her classhole friends. Help. Me.
9) I really miss undergraduate classes' uniform policy. I wish I was wearing a hoodie and pajama pants right now, holding a cheese bagel and ogling hot guys in my class. Strangely enough, summer teacher education coursework doesn't usually draw the hotties. Go figure.
10) TGIT. Or, TGAF. One more day 'til freedom.
What would you rather be doing right now?
What do you wish was more socially acceptable to wear out in public?
1) Someday when I'm pregnant, I'm just going to hide in an all natural vegan cave. There is a LOT of crap in the environment that can mess a kid up big time.
2) People will do anything for a reward. I, personally, will take an entire semester of coursework in one week to be rewarded with more free evenings over the total summer. Man, are people (me) fools or what?
3) Why is it so hard to find healthy food in a vending machine? And why can't there be a student fridge so that I can just bring my own darn food?
4) I drink way too much water. Consequently, I foten sit by the door so that I can dash out as needed. Super awkward.
5) Sitting for four hours straight between breaks does not make my rheumatoid arthritis happy. My knees were so stiff yesterday, I tried to get up and almost fell out of the chair. I feel like the freaking Tin Man. Awesome.
6) I have definite pen preferences. Most preferred: Clicky top smooth (ball) point. Next: cap top, smooth tip. Last: scratchy pens that make noise when you write. Hate those.
7) I've invented a new word. classhole: (def) a person who repeatedly moopolizes a class discussion with personal, often arbitrary or unrelated thoughts, ideas, arguements, or diatribes. sample sentence: Mary was a real classhole today when she spoke for 11 minutes straight about her son's journey with ADHD and how much she hates her son's school.
8) Mary is in my class. So are two of her classhole friends. Help. Me.
9) I really miss undergraduate classes' uniform policy. I wish I was wearing a hoodie and pajama pants right now, holding a cheese bagel and ogling hot guys in my class. Strangely enough, summer teacher education coursework doesn't usually draw the hotties. Go figure.
10) TGIT. Or, TGAF. One more day 'til freedom.
What would you rather be doing right now?
What do you wish was more socially acceptable to wear out in public?
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
No Girls Allowed
On Monday, I opened up my Amazon account and found the pictured item for "school must-haves" very confusing.
"Surely Amazon has made a mistake," I thought, "because that outfit definitely looks like a naughty schoolgirl costume I purchased for a bachelorette gag gift a few months ago. Also, it isn't the late '90s- Britney Spears' 'Hit Me Baby' video is no longer en vogue. Is this a joke?"
So I clicked through......
So I clicked through......
This is what they are actually advertising as a 'stylish saving' for GIRLS.
If we actually have any girls one day, I fear Kev might have a heart attack. Better yet, no girls allowed at all. Period. I absolutely refuse to dress my future daughters in shit like this some day.
Oshgosh Begosh 4 life.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Saturdays in the Chi
I had a helluva Saturday this weekend; the kind of weekend that makes you question your life choices and reminds you how terribly awfully lucky you are to be celebrating your summer in a world-class city with your kick-ass friends.
It all started with a street fest. We went to hear a friend's awesome band play at the summer on Southport fest. If you've ever lived in or visited the wonderous city of Chicago during the summer, you know that it magically morphs into a walking party in sporadic pockets. Walking down the street you can find a totally random fest nestled between bookends of buildings. Burger fest, bacon fest, beer fests- this one happened to be a "our street is awesome" fest. Kev and I happily trotted out around five, grabbed some beers on the closed-off street, and settled in from some truly grungy funk rock. Along the way, I gained a healthy buzz, lost some dignity, had a poem commissioned and written for me after bumping into an old high school friend, and almost drowned a pocket puppy with half a glass of red sangria while trying to discern whether or not it was actually "the fluffiest puppy at the fest." True story. Countless drinks later, our hot, sweaty troupe headed to the bar down the street with live country music. We drank, we danced, and way later in the night, Kev and I stopped for ice cream on our two am walk home.
It is nights like these that make me remember why I live in a small condo in a big, expensive city. Other friends of mine are starting to make their way into the suburbs- lured, no doubt, by the amount of home they can get for their money, less obscene taxes, and a non-traffic snarled commute. And yes, they can still come down for summer fests, but by moving they lose something else: serendipity.
I love this city because it is expensive and unpredictable. Because it is big, and loud, and you have to keep your head about you while navigating. I love that I have an honest to goodness tiny corner bar, with bartenders who know my name and have my icy Crispin and order of guac ready before I even ask. I love the tiny carry out places for late night food, and the fact that I can get ice cream at two am shitcan drunk and the guys behind the counter don't even bat an eye. I love that stopping by to see a band play and have one singular beer can turn into a late, irresponsible night. I love that one day my kid or kids will dance in front of a loud stage to music with wildly inappropriate lyrics while the band members soak them with SuperSoakers. I love the languages on the crazy bus route by my house, and the people that commute on the train who I wave to in the mornings.
A part of me knows that some day I, too, am going to head to the burbs in search of better schools and a yard to put a swingset in. But until that day, I need to get off my butt, get out the door, and give the world the opportunity to present me a day like yesterday: a day where the group kept getting bigger, the music louder, and the night longer. A day and night to remind me that I'm here, it is now, and you don't get memories: you make them. One sangria soaked dog at a time.
It all started with a street fest. We went to hear a friend's awesome band play at the summer on Southport fest. If you've ever lived in or visited the wonderous city of Chicago during the summer, you know that it magically morphs into a walking party in sporadic pockets. Walking down the street you can find a totally random fest nestled between bookends of buildings. Burger fest, bacon fest, beer fests- this one happened to be a "our street is awesome" fest. Kev and I happily trotted out around five, grabbed some beers on the closed-off street, and settled in from some truly grungy funk rock. Along the way, I gained a healthy buzz, lost some dignity, had a poem commissioned and written for me after bumping into an old high school friend, and almost drowned a pocket puppy with half a glass of red sangria while trying to discern whether or not it was actually "the fluffiest puppy at the fest." True story. Countless drinks later, our hot, sweaty troupe headed to the bar down the street with live country music. We drank, we danced, and way later in the night, Kev and I stopped for ice cream on our two am walk home.
It is nights like these that make me remember why I live in a small condo in a big, expensive city. Other friends of mine are starting to make their way into the suburbs- lured, no doubt, by the amount of home they can get for their money, less obscene taxes, and a non-traffic snarled commute. And yes, they can still come down for summer fests, but by moving they lose something else: serendipity.
I love this city because it is expensive and unpredictable. Because it is big, and loud, and you have to keep your head about you while navigating. I love that I have an honest to goodness tiny corner bar, with bartenders who know my name and have my icy Crispin and order of guac ready before I even ask. I love the tiny carry out places for late night food, and the fact that I can get ice cream at two am shitcan drunk and the guys behind the counter don't even bat an eye. I love that stopping by to see a band play and have one singular beer can turn into a late, irresponsible night. I love that one day my kid or kids will dance in front of a loud stage to music with wildly inappropriate lyrics while the band members soak them with SuperSoakers. I love the languages on the crazy bus route by my house, and the people that commute on the train who I wave to in the mornings.
A part of me knows that some day I, too, am going to head to the burbs in search of better schools and a yard to put a swingset in. But until that day, I need to get off my butt, get out the door, and give the world the opportunity to present me a day like yesterday: a day where the group kept getting bigger, the music louder, and the night longer. A day and night to remind me that I'm here, it is now, and you don't get memories: you make them. One sangria soaked dog at a time.
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