As a Woman Scorned

Setting: Adult Roles class

Time: 1984

Scene: At long last, the culminating event of class, the boys draw a girl classmate's name out of a hat to be his partner in the final project. The final project was pretending to be a married couple, accepting the assignment of X amount of kids, X amount of monthly income and X amount of surprise bills. We'd go to the grocery store together, maybe a used car lot and pretend to spend pretend money.

Why does this sound so exciting to an 18 year old girl? I have no idea.

As T.S. approached the hat, I silently begged prayed, "Please don't let him pick my name."

It's not that T.S. was gross, ugly, smelly or had crooked teeth. He was just T.S. He lacked tact, social graces, and sported a perpetual scowl. He was handsome enough and he played football which, on my short checklist, would have put him on the acceptable column but I had spent the past 7 years in school with him. I didn't like his temperament which precisely matched his scowl.

His girlfriend, D.D., shared his facial expression and obnoxious personality. They deserved each other.

I watched his hand dip in the hat and his eyes scanned the name. He dropped his hands to his side, looked up at the ceiling and wailed, "Not her!" I felt a combination of pity for the poor soul who was chosen to be his partner and train-wreck curiosity. Who could be so bad as to warrant THAT kind of response from someone as cantankerous as T.S.?

When the signal was given, the boys approached their new partners. Horrified and mortified, I found myself looking at the face of the one person I had begged, yes BEGGED God and the Universe to not tether me to.

I was the train wreck.

To his credit he had cleaned up the scowl and used a pleasant tone when he informed me we were partners. But nobody could have missed the reaction he had when he first saw my name. That is the scene that is etched in my cerebral cortex.

We grew up, grew older, he married D.D. who then became D.S. and I never wondered what ever happened to him. His existence just didn't cross my mind until I volunteered for the new elementary school PTA and met with Mrs. T.S. who, in a much softer voice than I remembered, called out to me and, unwittingly, I liked her.

Since that time, 7 years ago, I have exchanged many pleasantries with T.S. My husband and I even sat with them at a theater one evening when we found ourselves at the same movie. We exchange polite chit chat and speak nothing of the past.

I am a mature woman who moves on with her life. I don't cringe when I see him. We have grown up and beyond those childish impulses to vomit at the sight of one another.

Last Stake Conference T.S. was sustained as a high councilman in the stake. I gave my sustaining vote. I don't hold grudges. We are respectable beings in our communities. I have long since decided to like D.S. despite her teenage years. I would like T.S., too.

On Sunday I sat for services and scanned the pulpit for the speakers. We had a high councilman speaker that day. As he stood to give uplifting words, I saw the boy in the Izod shirt, perfectly coiffed and fluffy blond hair who, in no way, resembled this respectable, balding, middle aged man, and I heard the cry deep within my past thunder, "Not her!"

But I have moved past this episode with grace. I swallowed the vomit in my mouth. The perpetual scowl was still present but it was on my face.

Hell hath no fury...

And, yeah, I do see the irony.

Santa, Baby

You know it's going to be a long day...

Where Is My Mother?

Please note the child's father in the background.

There is no excuse for this kind of parenting.

Choreographing Life

I started a "Complete the sentence" exercise and found myself getting carried away. I don't like to do those little exercises for the public because I want to be witty. Which, if I do say so myself, some of the answers I came up with tickled me to tears.

Sorry you missed it.

What really happened is my fingers took over on #27.

27. I’ve come to realize that my friends. . . dance; physically, metaphorically, lyrically, metaphysically. Dancing is a completely separate topic. Dancing is an expression of feeling. It is a vehicle for seeking intimacy. Not all dancing is physical. Dancing is a way to connect to one another and ourselves.

That was my answer. I kept reading over it and thinking how it was incomplete and some might just figure I'm doing some crazy talk.

Oh no, my friends, you are dancing every single day of your lives. On its most basic level, you danced this morning while preparing breakfast at the same time as your husband. Think about the steps you take to not have impact.

On a deeper level, I move to the rhythm of my relationships. What is my stance when I talk to my 4 year old who is asking me to play "secret agent"? Am I leaning on my knees or am I continuing my solo?

When I talk to my 12 year old, are my hands clenched or is my posture open?

Can my people hear my steps? Can they predict my next turn? Can I predict theirs? What props are hindering or promoting the expression? Are we synchronized? Am I aware of my partner's movement?

Yes. My friends and family dance with me. They just don't realize it.

Normal and Christmas Cards

I am so brilliant that I just have to share my amazing mind with you all. I have two email accounts attached to this blog! So I've been making fun little comments all over blog world and being completely. Ignored.

I thought I was so witty or intelligent or philosophical and you people said nothing.

{Do you hear that sound? It's the sound of nothing}.

It's not that I make comments for attention (okay, kinda) but some of my comments were screaming for a response and I heard nothing.

And then I found my other email account. Now I realize that I was the one snubbing you.

Judge not that ye be not judged but isn't it nice to have someone to look down upon? That's what I must believe when I get those cutesy Christmas cards from all those delusional souls in the world who paint their lives in rose colored glasses.

Just a word to the above mentioned: If you really believe your life is that amazing, you have a lot to experience yet. It's not a threat. It's reality. And sometimes it sucks.

And so back to me. I am sorry I have been delinquent in answering questions or making conversation. I was not purposely ignoring you and I appreciate support I find in the blogging community. Oh, and if you are expecting a Christmas card this year, it probably won't happen. It's not been a terrible year but I'm tired. Motherhood is kicking my butt.

If you DO get a Christmas card, it will be impersonal and only have a Costco photo card in it. It won't be a photo perfectly framed and symmetrical. This is not my way of being creative and artsy. It was just the best shot. I'm grateful I got a few where one or all members of my family are not crying.

The segue is there but you might have to stretch - It's late and I have a child laying at my feet. Darling child whom I love with all my heart that had a temper tantrum a couple of days ago for most of the neighborhood to either see or hear. I worry about her desperately and have had her tested for ALL kinds of disorders. Had a huge I.E.P. at the school where we all sat around a big table and the spokesperson, the school psychologist, who spoke to me like I had a very small mind and reminded me to speak to parents of my students where I work like equals (run on sentence), used small words to explain that this child is normal.

But what about the discrepancy between the two I.Q. scores?

The mean is still 113.

But she turns in her homework 50% of the time. Aren't we worried about executive functioning?

No, her standardized testing scores are consistently in the 95%ile or higher.

Finally, we finished with auditory processing testing at the district audiology department.

Dr. Audiologist had nothing more to say than "She's normal."

Normal. She relished in that word.

Okay, she's high maintenance, high anxiety, and has episodes that mortify me in public at times. But she's normal. I wonder if my psychology training has been detrimental to my children rather than advantageous. We look for mental illness. We will test and test and test until we find something deviant.

Done with the tests. No more finding excuses for her being high maintenance. It's time to get my hands dirty and simply be a parent. Setting boundaries and listening to the occasional, "I hate you! You are so mean!"

It's my job. I'm the parent.

So the Christmas newsletter will be absent this year. Again. But for you, dear blog friends, a summary.

14 year old is awesome but thinks her parents don't know that she is interested in boys and boys are interested in her. Because we are really THAT stupid.

12 year old has already been summed up. I'm praying she'll outgrow her identity crisis and learn to love herself. I'm thinking it will be a whole lot easier without the constant diagnosing by her mother and tests by others. She's NORMAL. Whatever that means. Like I'm normal, perhaps. Yet, as she is sleeping at my feet, she has laughed in her sleep OUT LOUD no less than 5 times. Can she really be so unhappy if she is having dreams that make her laugh?

9 year old boy can't sit through an entire dinner without suddenly screaming like a little girl and tearing off his shirt. I don't know why. He has also discovered 'doorbell ditching' this year. When we were little, we called it something different.

4 year old boy can't sit for an entire meal. When his brother tears off his own shirt and runs around the table, 4 year old follows suit. He also pees his pants.

I do laundry. I yell. I read. I work. I drive the minivan. I have bags under my eyes. I make dinner. I talk to teenagers and parents a portion of the day. I lament my shortcomings. I pray a lot.

Mr. Taylor is perfect. I need say no more.

Ah, what the heck. It's Christmas, for crying out loud. Mr. Taylor loves basketball. He's sore, bruised, will probably break something soon and will need knee replacement within a few years (months?).

But at least there's two of us to handle the kicking of my butt by motherhood.

Game On

I don't really know how it caught on but I know how it started.  It was wrapped in shiny aluminum foil and was still warm. Jill gave me cinnamon toast for Christmas. The next year, my ego stinging from being tossed aside so casually by the guy who proposed, when I said, "not now," he proposed to his next conquest before having the courtesy of dumping me. Ouch.
  
Jill gave me pigeons to sneak into his car and leave to do their duties (pun intended) all night.
  
And so it began.
  
One year I gave her a stack of gift cards with no more than 18 cents on each.
  
She gave me matching toothbrushes for my whole family.
  
I gave her slippers made from maxi pads.
  
She countered with a large box of no less than 80 unmatchable socks.
  
I offered a box for her food storage, complete with different sizes of cans of food without the labels.
  
She gave me bouquet of weeds tied up in a pretty bow and a fabric snowman stuffed with lint from her dryer.
  
And here lies my quandary. I got nothin'.

Christmas is coming and I can't think of a thing. I need a creative gift to give to the woman who packaged up my own surprise party. She even included instructions to hold the envelope above my head, tear it in half and, as the confetti falls around me, yell, "Surprise!" There was even a cake mix with frosting. And a banner.

Last year I was going to give her one ski but she one-upped me by giving me 80 spare socks.

I appreciate any and all input. I need a Christmas miracle.

Midlife Crisis Part II

     My wedding ring is worn out. It was snug when I got it 18 years ago. Through the years of being fat and pregnant, then just fat, then thin, and then pregnant again (repeat 4 times), and having my ring resized a few times, it's just worn out. This year for Christmas I'm getting my diamond re-set.
     The other day I went to Jared's and was greeted by a round, young man who introduced himself as Alex and offered to take me on a tour of the store. "Just show me where your rings are," I hurried him, "I have a pre-schooler to pick up and my kids will be home from school soon." He looked a little taken aback but invited me to take a seat. Actually, he insisted I sit down before he hand me any jewelry. Apparently, I would have a headstart if I were to suddenly take off with costly jewels and precious metals.
     Alex was okay although he struck me as a little salesman-ish when he called me "sweetie" and "sweetheart." People who call me "Sweetie" are usually 1) my husband 2) old people and 3) people from the South. Alex was none of the above. I'd peg him for late 20-ish.
     The next day my husband and I returned to the store. We motioned to Alex we were there then stood around listening to the crap coming from the sales people on the other side of the glass cases. The store was packed. It felt like a used car lot. I then noticed little rooms off to side. A quiet place to close the deal, I assumed. I started tasting dinner repeat. This may not be pleasant.
     The mood was more pushy this night. Alex maintained his calm demeanor but when he walked away, another salesman walked past. He was looking at the ring I was holding. He suddenly had a story to tell about a woman who had a ring picked out, returned the next day, just in time to watch the ring get sold to someone else. "It happens," he said, a little too eagerly.
     I  had a look of pleasant satisfaction when I told my husband why I liked this ring. The arrangement was symbolic of my family - four small side diamonds for my children, my main diamond for my marriage, and a circle for eternal family. It was an intimate moment when another salesman approached and said, "I see a smile on her face! Do you love the ring? Are you getting it tonight? You know, we have 12 months same-as-cash financing!" Moment ruined.
     By the time Alex returned, I had mastered the poker face. Unbeknownst to him, we were getting the ring but I'd darned if I was going to be pressured into it. Alex then made a huge faux pas.
     In an effort to connect to the customer, he segued in a story about his mother and how I was like her. Oh no he did not. "I'm sorry, Alex, but did you just compare me to your mother?"
    "Well, yeah," he stammered, "but she's really young. She's 43." The sound we all heard was the deflating of my ego. Suspiciously, it sounded like a whoopie cushion.
     We bought the ring then waited for it to be resized. The crowd dwindled then completely died out. The sales facade drooped then dropped right off. We were the last customers in the store. The sales team stood around in a circle, killing time until our ring was finished.  I approached the circle and looked the manager in the eyes. "How old do you think I am?" I challenged him. He swalled once and started with 32. I rolled my eyes.
     "Do I need to write Alex up for something inappropriate?"
     "He compared me to his mother!"
     "In his defense, he is was adopted late in life and his mother really is young. She's like 34, I think."
     "She's 43. He told me. Is she hot?"
     I didn't hear the answer. Something just clicked. Alex. Adopted. Foster care.
     Summer of 1993. I was working as the school counselor for summer school that year. Two brothers in foster care; Eric who was 18 and little Alex, age 12. Alex was small for his age. He had no desire to do summer school. He sat out in the hall and talked to me all summer during the lull of registering students. He was a very sad and hurt little boy. He wanted so badly to be adopted. He cried one day and we talked for a very long time.
     Back to 2009. "Alex, I know you! We're old friends! You have an older brother and you used to come to..."
     "Summer school in the trailers," he finished. "I remember you! You were nice to me. You and a handful of other adults saved my life through kindness."
     My brand new ring was finished about that time. We could finally leave. Quickly, I caught up on Alex, Eric, and what they had survived over the years. I was ambivalent toward Alex the Salesman. But inside Alex the Salesman, I glimpsed that 12 year old boy that I wanted to hug and protect 17 years ago. I hugged that Alex goodbye and whispered, "I am glad you compared me to your mother."
     I feel humbled.

Midlife Crisis Part I

"Am I pretty?" I tentatively asked my sister. "Do I look younger than I am?"
"Yes," she replied obediently. "Why do you ask?"
"A student's dad hit on me today. Actually, he hit on me yesterday then came back today without his kid and officially asked me my marital status."
"I forgot my ring yesterday," my sister mused, "I was "hit on" by dads and students!"
"You're not helping." I was whining by now. "This guy is 65 years old."
"Oh," she said, "That's bad. That's really bad."
I know.

Good Reads

To alleviate my guilt for neglecting my domestic duties, I will be providing a public service today.  Instead of doing laundry, I have been reading.  Here are some good books for the hard to buy for Christmas:

Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins:  Well written, action packed, engaging story with a strong female character who has no special powers but has survived and taken care of her sister and mother in a dystopic government.  Her actions in the government sponsored "games" to control the people set the stage for a people's uprising which will be addressed in book 2, Catching Fire.  I liked Catching Fire better than Hunger Games but I liked both quite a bit.  A little on the addicting side. Caution:  It's a trilogy.  Last book will be published in September.

Moloka'i:  Historical fiction written about the leprosy colony on the island of (tada!) Moloka'i.  The main character is Rachel, beginning at age 5.  Through her eyes, the reader experiences life on the island as a leper. The time period is carefully contructed as key historical events unfold.  The most striking element of this book is that the people did not go to the island to die (although many did), but to live. They had communities, stores, bars, baseball leagues, surfing.  They loved, married, died, worked, and played. Knowing essentially nothing about leprosy, now called Hansen's Disease, I really enjoyed learning.  The story is well written and paints a well rounded picture of life at that time.

Tuesdays With Morrie by Mitch Albom:  I was hesitant to read this book because Morrie dies in the end, of course. It is a memoir by the author about reconnecting with an old college professor who has ALS or Lou Gerig's Disease.  Albom goes to Morrie's on Tuesdays for the last 14 weeks of his life.  Although  Morrie is dying and Albom spends some time describing his deterioration, the book is about living and connecting to each other.  This is either an easy read or a life changing book.  Lessons are concise and nothing is belabored.  I loved this book.  I think I will read it every year.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett:  Historical Fiction set in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960s.  The story includes a peripheral view of the civil rights activism occurring at the time, including the protest march for James Meredith and the death of Medger Evers.  Martin Luther King, Jr. is brought up in conversation but the story is about a lot of little people making little changes and taking chances.  My dad, who marched in the James Meredith protest since he was going to Ole Miss and later returned to Mississippi to organize Head Start pre-school in the black areas and was a Civil Rights Worker loved the book and called it an accurate portrayal of life in the south.

Promises to Keep by Dean Hughes is for a very select group of readers who found the author's historical fiction series on WWII, got swallowed up in the different theaters of the war in the Thomas children, and felt unsettled when the fifth and the last book of the series was finished.  Because life goes on and doesn't end with a hunky dory "happily ever after."  But then, these die-hard readers found the next installment that included children of the Thomas children coming of age in the 1960s, struggling with Vietnam, civil rights, hippie era, peace corp., marrying an abusive husband and seeking help in a society that doesn't condone that kind of action.  Another five books extensively researched (although I loved the first five more) and still, life continued on.  What happened to Gene after coming home from Vietnam and he couldn't get himself together?  What will Diane do now that she is a single parent in a man's world?

Enter book book 11 (although it can be read separately, unlike the others).  It's 1985. 15 years have passed and life has continued on.  This book is more focused on the relationship between single mother/ teenage daughter but other hanging threads are tied up, although not with a nice red bow.  Life still goes on.  I feel satisfied with the story now.  I won't read any more if he publishes more on this family.  I couldn't stand to see my imaginary friends get old and die.

Wow.  That last sentence is a sad, sad commentary on my social life. Although it may have something to do with the first sentence of this post.  Maybe I just need clean underwear.

What good books have you read or want to read?

The Rancher

You know how I sometimes talk with nostalgia about growing up in a rural farm town and being a farm girl?  I was never a farm girl.  My parents had 7 acres where my dad played farmer for nearly 30 years but it was more of a hobby of his.  Once away from home, I was kind of going for the more sophisticated look.  I looked stupid(er) when someone cracked jokes about Rocky Mountain Oysters. Why would I know what they were?

My parents wanted to raise stuff so they tried out alfalfa and a series of different animals.  They really raised kids and rocks.  Both of those things grew like weeds.  And weeds.  They grew, too.

When I was an early teen they decided to raise a few cows.  I thought it was pretty cool when we had SEVEN cows (cue Johnny Lingo music).  We were ranchers, now.  On the other hand, I was seeking that sophistication which was terribly difficult to attain when 1) I had to ride a bus to school and 2) I'd have to tell the bus driver to let me out.  The stupid cows were out again and blocking the road.  I got to chase them back into the field using whatever stick or rake I could find.  I always got stuff on my shoes or pants.  Definitely not sophisticated.

Then the realization of the purpose of cows came home one day.  We were going to eat them.  In order to eat them, they had to be dead.  Never name an animal you are going to eat.  Next thing I know, I discover I'm a vegetarian.  Now I'm not a farm girl nor am I sophisticated.  I'm just sad.

Over the years I have introduced some meat into my diet, although I've not been able to stomach beef very well.  Chicken and turkey don't have those pretty, sad eyes.  I can eat that.

Before Thanksgiving I bought a turkey because it was so cheap.  I love a good sale.  It took a few days to thaw when I took it out of the freezer.  I cooked it today.  It was very beautiful and I took a moment to admire it.  Unfortunately, I took too long of a moment and I realized I was the only person awake and I had to carve it.  Mostly I just picked it off the bone and kept visualizing what part of the live turkey I was poking my fingers into.  I'd also smeared butter between the skin and the muscle meat with sage, rosemary, and thyme and stuffed more of the green stuff into the cavity through its butt.

As I finally picked the last of the greasy meat off the carcass and swallowed the bile that kept rising in my throat, I realized that turkeys, chickens and cows are all safe once again.

Turkey, anyone?

The 8th Wonder

Pre-lit artificial Christmas tree - $100

Christmas ornaments - 18 years and four children's imagination (and their teachers)

Putting up tree without cussing and letting children do all the decorating - Priceless

Too wordy to be a real Visa commercial, huh?

Granny

We have new daycare workers this year.  The manager is a nice woman about my age.  She has two teenage sons.  In fact, we're secretly conspiring to make our children marry each other.  In a timely manner.

Then there is 23 year old Stacy, recently married, waiting for her husband to graduate from college, and thinking about babies.  I thought we shared a collegial relationship.  I thought wrong.

Last week she asked me how old I was.  I replied with the standard, "old" response.

"No, really.  How old are you?"

"I'll be 44 on Tuesday."

"That's not old!" she laughed. "That's only a year older than my MOM!"

Wow. That comment did not make me feel old at all.

Having a 4 year old gives me a false sense of youth. I like it. I'd accepted that I am at least the age of many of my students' parents. They have teenagers.

I also understood that,  in theory, many of my former high school classmates are legitimate grandparents.  In theory.

But I had just been compared to a colleague's mother. With that one remark, she pushed me squarely into the next generation.

I pulled a tissue from the inside of my flowered polyester sleeve to wipe the tears from my eyes - or it could have been sweat from my hot flashes.

Sunday and Ginger Need Psychiatric Help

"I'm going to a conference in San Antonio," my husband announced four months ago. "Will you be okay for a few days?" I assured him that I could, in fact, manage without him for a few days.

Before leaving, he gave the children their assignments for taking care of the house and Mom.  The first day, all of the children took their assignments seriously and soberly.  The 9 year old boy checked that the dog had food and water every morning.  He took out the garbage to be picked up and brought it in after school. He didn't tease his siblings as much. He started out as gold and stayed 80% so for the duration.

The teenager cleaned up after dinner the first night, folded a few clothes, then pretty much left the rest of us alone for the next few days.

The 11 year old continued with her pre-pubescent identity crisis but tried to do what she was told.  When she didn't plan on doing what she was told, at least she had the integrity to inform me.

The 4 year old talked. Non-stop. I would find him draped across me sometime during the night, in the king size bed, like every other night.

Pretty much, it was business, as usual. We went to school, came home, argued a little about homework, had a doctor appointment, ran out of lunch money, a huge meteor lit up the sky in the middle of the night and may concerned me with the sonic boom a bit, but I continued reading my book. We did fine.

But nobody told the dog and cat.

The dog followed me around the house all the time. When I backed up to open the refrigerator, she was right there.  When I walked into the bedroom to pick up a book, she followed me.  When I put a child in the tub, she stretched out in the doorway like she would be staying for awhile.  When I stepped over her to find a towel, she followed me to the other bathroom, to the laundry room, and finally back to the bathroom with the naked boy where she would lay her head on paws again.

Every night the cat would walk around in circles and talk.  Loud.  She wanted someone to show her where we kept her food even though we've not moved it in the 8 years we've had her. I'd have to drag myself up from wherever I was reading (do you see a theme here?), pick her up, and plop her right in front of her food, which was 2 feet from her face, and stand there until she ate something and let her leave on her own terms.  She'd then start it up again 15 minutes later. She threw up three times that first morning.

And then they'd fight.  The cat would walk back and forth in the dog's line of sight, baiting her, sticking her tail up in the dog's face until the poor 60 lb. dog could stand it no longer. She had to pounce on the 8 lb. cat.  She'd nip at her while the cat swiped at the dog's nose, not once turning to run away to safety. Sad as it is, the dog was always the loser in the ring.

After four days, the kids and I picked up the Dad at the airport. They all had something incredibly important to tell him about what he missed like that the 9 year old got a crampy tremor in his left butt cheek or the 11 year old is writing a story in her special notebook but when he heaved his suitcase onto the bed, all children were at attention for souvenirs (except the four year old who fell asleep on the way to the airport).  Goods appropriated, the children wandered off to bed.  The cat sniffed the man's feet. The man grabbed the dog, gave her a good whiff, and announced that he missed her smell and he went to bed.

The cat remembered where we keep her food.  She stopped throwing up. The dog is curled up in the corner.  I've left the room no less than 8 times.  Alone.

Crisis is over. Next time I will put anti-anxiety medication in their food.