Circling the Stupid

I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.

Frank Sinatra

When I was a kid, Westerns dominated the television screen. Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, The Big Valley, Maverick, Bonanza and many more. Always had an allure to them even though I'm not sure what it was, other than the adventure. One scene I recall in all those shows was someone riding on a horse and noticing buzzards circling the sky. A sure sign something, or someone, had met their demise.

Last Saturday night, my husband and I attended a party. For some reason, one of those wild moods prevailed and we let go -- full force. We partied. Like in the old days. When we were young.

We ain't young, no more.

Didn't feel so good on Sunday. My friend, who also attended the party, texted me to say she missed us at the 11am church service. I texted her back, and lied. Said we had gone to the 8am service.

Arising late, my husband and I loaded up on Advil and ventured outside to work in our yard. Not only is the normal Spring cleanup and planting taking place, a time crunch has arrived for all the company headed our direction for the upcoming wedding and graduations. We gathered twenty-eight yard bags of live oak leaves and trimmings. I raked and pulled the dead plants that didn't survive the winter's harsh cold. Also, dug up and transplanted some Knock Out roses.

When I put the finishing shovel of dirt around the last rose, I felt an urge to lie down. I did. Right there in the yard. On my back, eyes closed. Felt the sun on my face and wished I'd taken some Alka Seltzer for my stomach. After a brief respite, I opened my eyes to view the sky. There, circling high up, but directly above me, was a buzzard. I stared in horror. Right out of an old Western.

Rightous retribution? Penance for my misbehavior? When I moved my arm, that old buzzard realized I was still alive and he flew on, circling for some other fresh kill to alert his friends to.

I took some Alka Seltzer. Got that party thing out of my system. Back to reality -- and my lists. How's this for a blog post filled with substance?

Blowing the Whistle

Who dares to teach must never cease to learn.

John Cotton Dana

Yesterday, I had a half day afternoon job, teaching Latin. I'm not a morning person, so not having to show up until noon works for me. I spent my morning puttering around the house--reading a little, writing a little, checking my email, and planting a few columbines out in the garden. I emptied the dishwasher and brought up the garbage cans. Took something out to defrost for dinner, then washed my face, put on my teacher clothes, and headed off to the high school, and Latin.

Yeah, Latin. Like I know how to teach that. But in this stint of substitute teaching, I've become quite adept at learning a new subject in only a matter of moments. Often subbing is only babysitting as teachers leave boring worksheets or study time. But I find refereeing a room full of middle or high school students, with basically nothing to do for an hour and a half, offers more strain on my temperament than discovering a new subject and seeking a route to enhance both their learning and mine.

In the past few months, I've taught World History, Geography, French, English, Band, Theatre Arts, Algebra 2, Earth Science and Biology. I've learned, and hopefully passed on, some valuable material. But where have I spent most of my time? P.E. Physical Education. Picture a 53 year old women in the middle of a gym with 35 kids playing combat Dodge Ball. Not a problem, though. As the mother of three boys, I'm comfortable walking into a room with flying balls.

I'm requested often for PE. My friend at the YMCA gave me a whistle which I keep in my teacher bag. Comes in handy when the mom voice doesn't quite rise above the din in the gym.

If students become unruly in PE? I merely blow that whistle and say in a calm voice. "You guys aren't listening to me. Time to run."

As the kids run/walk/jog around me, tongues hanging to the floor, they ask how long they have to run. I look at my watch, then answer. "Until I get tired."

Works every time.

So, Latin. I go to school. Turns out I have my days wrong. My Latin assignment is on Friday. I blame menopause for the brain fade rather than stupidity. Like, didn't I look at the date of the job when I signed up? So thankful the women who work that front office are my age. They laughed with me, rather than at me.

Showing up for work, and then not having to? Almost like a Snow Day.

Until Friday then. Magister dixit. Carpe noctem.

What I Did on My Spring Break

Well, spring sprang. We've had our state of grace and our little gift of sanctioned madness, courtesy of Mother Nature. Thanks, Gaia. Much obliged. I guess it's time to get back to that daily routine of living we like to call normal.

David Assael

Remember this photo? And my post on my great housekeeper skills?

Tuesday, me and Ian - eight hours spent shoveling out the study where three boys have unwound and only spot cleaned for (dare I say?) years. Keep in mind, in the above picture you can't see all the junk (i.e. baseball uniforms, golf clubs, school work, old computer games and the boxes they arrived in, soda cans, underwear) lurking in the crevices beside the couch and computer - or the floor. Nor the mountains of dust on the books. I won't mention the old rug. The result?


Tell me it looks better. Please. I know it smells much better.

Also, youngest son is mad at me. After the first day of NCAA basketball playoffs, I'm 12 for 16. Ranked 143000 on ESPN. Told him when we picked our brackets not to mess with me. That I knew how to do this. He scoffed at my choices. Hmmmph. No scoffing going on today!

Also, spring has sprung in Texas. The Bradford Pears have been most beautiful.


Tomatoes once again planted, dauntless in memory of my previous thwarted attempts.
Cabbage salad soon available for dinner.

Had a pomegranate martini for lunch the other day -- and a nap in the afternoon.

With a clean study, a trip to the library, two miles swum at the YMCA, and 8 high school baseball games behind me, once more to the lake for the remaining two days of vacation, my copy of EB White's essays under my arm. Next week, back to work.

Help! Closet Dweller Needs a Tune

Child of mine, child of mine
Oh yes, sweet darling
So glad you are a child of mine.

Carole King

Today I changed the sheets on my bed. Not because I planned to, but because Janna at Something She Wrote posed a question on her blog the other day as to how often we might fess up to changing our sheets. Okay. Weekly, of course. Right?

Couldn't sleep last night. Got up this morning, stripped my bed and washed the sheets. Maybe if I had more than one pair of sheets. But they're not fresh when you pull them out of the linen closet - and I like to hang them outside, and ...

I've lost the thread.

Anyway, so Jacob, my oldest who is getting married in April, calls me while I'm tugging on the last corner of the clean bottom sheet and says,

"I need you to pick a song for the Mother/Son dance."

"Okay," I say. "I'll think about it and let you know."

Back to making the bed. While I'm putting on the blanket and trying to make neat corners in the tiny side leftovers on the King size cover that's REALLY MADE FOR A QUEENSIZE EVEN THOUGH IT SAYS KING (why do they do that?), a deep thought hits me. I fall onto the bed and after a few moments of hyperventilation, grab the phone and call Jacob back.

"So like the two people who prefer hiding in the back row, in the dark, have to get up in front of everyone -- and dance. Like alone?"

"That's what I said," he replies.

Shit.

All I can think of is Hank Williams - Six Pack to Go.

I Googled Mother/Son dance and the only one I liked is the Beatles - In My Life - 2 minutes 37 seconds. I have always loved, and sang to my children, Carole King's Child of Mine. But I would sob all the way through that and it is also 3 minutes and 53 seconds. An eternity. On a dance floor. In the spotlight. In a silver pair of shoes that are killing my feet.

When Jacob came by today, he said we don't have to do it if we don't want to. Now I feel I have too much time racked up in the best song pursuit. Easy to puss out on it, but must press forward.

So, I pose the question to all of you. An appropriate mother/son dance song that is cool, not sappy, not sad, not at the top of the mom/son dance Google hit list, has a little sass, classs, not too slow, not too fast, and will hopefully make everyone else join us on the dance floor when the next song is Love Shack.

Help required, indeed.

Please click on the songs to the right to see what I'm thinking.

Job Hunting - Not Just for Old Ladies

The closest to perfection a person ever comes is when he fills out a job application form.

Stanley J. Randall

All this talk of weddings and college visits and choices has bypassed another son in my house. One embarking on a new adventure. Remember Jordan? The boy who raises fawns?




And kills rattlesnakes?

Tucked in the middle of that wedding and high school graduation is the completion of a Bachelor's degree in biology -- trip to Arizona for my husband and me to see that boy grasp his diploma. And, of course, college graduations bring gainful employment where children elope from parent's payrolls. Permanently. Right. RIGHT!

In the file of resumes I've kept on my desktop for ready use this past year, Jordan's has the freshest face. Young, unattached, eager to take on the world -- everything he owns will fit in his car, opening up the many possibilities he's finding countrywide that offer his next adventure.

While completing 17 hours of study to adhere to the four year tuition schedule allotted by his parents (those dwindling funds now assigned to his younger brother) each day he searches the wildlife websites for open positions, adjusting his resume and cover letter to fit the job. A science guy, he has utilized his mother's typing fingers to tighten up the verbiage. Makes me feel useful and I'm glad he's asking. (I can fix other people's sentences much better than my own.)

Impatiently, he checks his email to await responses to his applications. Nothing yet. But the windows keep opening, he keeps applying, and he is ready to fly.

If I compare his possibilities to mine, the Midlife Jobhunter, I see a much broader skyline in his search. Youth backs his flight. Although his credentials may not contain as many skills or as much experience as mine, he is more employable simply because he is young, flexible, willing to relocate, and has the energy to work long hours and get his hands dirty.

Not to say midlifers can't do that, but a definite difference exists for those of us no longer trained in the newest technologies. Those that have too much baggage to pack up all our belongings in our Civic and head off down the road. Those that can physically no longer take on the tasks that younger years offered.

Makes for a most exciting time for this young son. One that will strike out on his own and has not completely figured out how exciting life will be.

Another one - that I once carried in my arms - all grown up.

What Lies Ahead

We've had bad luck with our kids - they've all grown up.

Christopher Morley

Once upon a time I spent my days with a gaggle of kids that followed me where ever I went. My world revolved around the three souls I pushed out of my womb and then made sure they had food placed in front of them, shoes that fit, and swimming holes to explore. My days sometimes seemed to never end. I ached for an hour or two where no one needed me for something. Just an hour. Or a minute. Like an opportunity to shut the bathroom door and pee alone.

Even though it didn't seem possible I'd ever escape the always present mountain of laundry, the sticky floors from juice spilled, or the driving schedule that began at 3pm and ended when the last game or guitar lesson ended hours later, I knew there would come a time. That time is now. My last son is a high school senior and next year, my calendar will not have hours of baseball games filling the slots and there will be no one's ass to chew about getting homework completed.


How in the world did this little boy become old enough to go off to college?

Youngest son, Ian, and I took a road trip last week. College visit. He had been accepted to a few schools. Some even with in-state tuition. But he had a dream, and never one to not encourage those, I arranged flight, a car, and time to visit an old friend who teaches at the university.

Ian and I walked around campus, taking in all the sites. Took a tour. Visited with our old friends who drove us for hours on end to see the surrounding area. Overwhelmed, Ian and I retreated to our hotel for siesta time, watching the Olympics or talking about what we'd seen. As Ian endured Ice Dancing, for his mother's sake, we read the local newspapers and just soaked up the entire environment - not talking about a decision.

On the last day, Ian went on ahead of me as he had a meeting scheduled with the head of his department. By the time I got my camera out, (my hands were shaking) he was almost out of my sight and in the building.

We've since had a discussion on which college he's chosen to attend. Come fall, the last of those that followed me around will be off on their own. How does that happen so quickly? My grieving has begun, although...

...I'm probably going to be working so much to help pay for his butt to attend, that I won't have time to miss him. Now, there's fodder for future posts - that midlife job hunting thing again.

...and the women gathered...

[W]hen you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Nora Ephron, When Harry Met Sally

A report on my college road trip with youngest son is in the works, but not quite ready for a reader's eye. So much emotion building in me regarding the upcoming absence of children in my home. My grieving smacked me in the face. I'm also stumped for the perfect quote today. Been looking for an hour or more to find the perfect rune for how women gather -- one that might focus on how women support one another. Watch out for each other. The quilting bee. Anyone come across one, please send it to me.

I returned from the road trip and after two baseball games fell right into the wedding shower for my oldest's bride-to-be. What fun we had.

My friend, Savannah, and the Bunco Bitches outdid themselves. Check out this apron Linda made and all the attached kitchen accouterments they collected. Try to see how her necklace is made from corn on the cob picks. (First picture probably a better avenue.) And, yes, all those women on the apron material do have fruit for butts.


Champagne punch. Petit fours. Chicken, fruit, pasta, and green salads. All the lovely touches made this day very special for the bride and made me most grateful for the women who brought us together for the day.

With genuine appreciation, I thank you.

My, How You've Grown

A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.

Eudora Welty

I've spent some time the last couple weeks gathering childhood photos of my future daughter-in-law and son. My friends are hosting a wedding shower for them and my job is to put together photos of their lives.

Once upon a time I put all photos into albums as soon as they came back from the store. Then somewhere around the third child, boxes became the holding place for those captured memories. Pulling out box after box, I cursed my neglect. But I found myself lingering over the photos of each son, my mind tracing the timeline of each photo as I recalled the exact moments the shutter clicked on the camera.

And, then, reminded of the purpose, choosing the photos of my oldest son. That boy who was just born a couple years ago, or so it seems.

Let's See if He Notices

The highlight of my childhood was making my brother laugh so hard that food came out his nose.

Garrison Keillor

This is not my backyard. I live below the snow line. It is my brother's backyard, however. A while back, he sent me this beautiful photo of a Wisconsin's winter day taken from his back porch.

I have three brothers. This particular one still has dial up. Says he's visited my blog, but let's see if he notices his own backyard. Perhaps my mom will give him a head's up. I'll let you know.

I've even added his dog.

Currently on the road with my youngest son. His turn to enjoy a road trip with mom. College visits. Went to AAA before we left to figure out all the site-seeing stops. He is very excited. My computer remains at home, but my book bag rides beside me. Will catch up in a few days. Take good care, everyone.

I love ya, Jord!

Book Reader, Book Reader - Where Art Thou?

Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.

Ovid

In a normal year, I read 1-2 books a week. Always have several books going and placed strategically for an easy grab: beside my bed, my chair, the backseat of my car, my book bag, the kitchen table. Pictured here is my Books To Be Read shelf in my bedroom.

I lie. Those books are just at the back of the shelf. Here's what it really looks like.

Here are the books my friend at 128 Sticks of Butter gave me the other day.
Why these collections are exceedingly abundant right now is the blogpost at hand. I've had a most difficult struggle with reading the past few months. Certainly not due to lack of good material, but, instead, a focus affair. When I sit to read, I find myself repeating the same paragraph again and again. My midlife mind takes junkets to pending tasks and exercise needs, upcoming and current family events. My brain becomes the catalog for all those written lists buried in my House of Unfinished Projects.

The inability to settle on the pages and understand the cadence of a writer's chosen words is most frustrating. How I miss the solace found in a story, traveling to unknown worlds and living the lives of others. My absence of concentration keeps me from seeking those travels.

I do miss the satisfaction that arrives when the last page is turned on a truly good read and the anticipation of going to the shelf to choose a new adventure.

How will I remedy this? As often true, the words I write here have clued me in on what I'm missing. That perhaps the reason everything whirls about my head is because I'm not letting it find calm in other worlds. That vacation can bring health. That burying myself in the binding of a good book is a fine way to settle myself.

Today, during my off period at school, I opened Five Queen's Road by Sorayya Khan, a dear friend. Between the beauty of Sorayya's writing, the quiet of the classroom, and nothing there to remind me of tasks undone, I read. Most lovely. Set the pace for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow, I will reassure myself that this rest is only vital fodder for my future crops.

With this posted, the fallow field is ready. I'm reading a book until bed.

To order Sorayya's book, please find the address here. Her first book, Noor, may be ordered at Amazon.com

I Got Nothin'

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.

Theodore Geisel

I'm overdue for a post. I'm not even finished writing or visiting all those who left fascinating and most appreciated comments on my last post, but post I must and for my next entry? I got nothin'.

My oldest son, Jacob, walked in a few minutes ago. Caught me taking pictures of my lists which float around in the disorganized muck of my household. Explained to him I planned to use my 'Things to Do' as an excuse for not writing something better.

His reply?

"You can't force a blog post, Mom."

Hmmph. When did he get so smart?

However, now that I have the photos uploaded, I have an idea. Do my lists look like yours?

I'm thinking you are better organized. For if you focus on individual items on these pages like Find a real job or Write resume, you will also find:

Dental appointment
Kill cat for peeing on bathroom rug
Order announcements for Jordan's college graduation

in the midst of

Work out at YMCA
Finish novel
Write non-fiction book proposal

I ask you? What are the chances someone won't need another dental appointment before that novel is done? Or that this list will be around long enough for me to switch Jordan's name to Ian, who begins college in the fall? Or that the cat will even come home after I launched her ass out the back door? (Gag me. YMCA on there again?)

I must be honest. Several checklists hide in the dialogue of my journal, which is sort of a joke to myself. I don't go back and read my journal pages, therefore, whatever I tally there is lost forever. Also not included are the litany of duties I compose during my free hour while substitute teaching. When the last bell rings, I bunch those pages up and float them onto the floor to mingle among the daily handouts the students have left in a similar manner.

I also confess to little notes I leave myself regarding really important things that require immediate attention. Like these.

Notice the olive oil stain. Fresh, of course.

Somewhere I have a list of future blog posts. Not sure where that is right now.

As to that son of mine? Hahaha! I think I just forced a blog post after all!

Teach you to challenge me.

If by chance I haven't found my blog list by February 14th - here's to y'all.

The Art of My Essays - Part II The Fog Changes

Also, as I lay there thinking of my vision, I could see it all again and feel the meaning with a part of me like a strange power glowing in my body; but when the part of me that talks would try to make words for the meaning, it would be like fog and get away from me.

Black Elk

In her farewell editorial in the New York Times column Domestic Disturbances, Judith Warner wrote the following:

“’How can I know what I think until I read what I write?” the former Times columnist James Reston — quoted by (Anna) Quindlen in her final “Life in the 30s” column, in December 1988 — once wrote. Often, writing here, I didn’t know fully what I felt — about things going on in my own life — until I read what I’d written. And very often I didn’t understand what I’d written until I heard it coming back at me.

I read this editorial in December and kept it tucked in my mind (actually pasted into a document for a future post.) The reason? I completely understand using what I've written to understand myself. And the comments of others to further discern the meaning. What relief I felt to learn I'm not alone.

On January 12, I wrote Part One of this small series regarding the discovery of my own interest in writing personal essays. Through my efforts as the volunteer neighborhood newsletter editor, I found an escape from the days filled with wiping noses, changing diapers, and endlessly pushing the swing at the park. Not that I didn't enjoy that, but, I needed an outlet just to keep that bit of myself that still clung to the edge and wasn't sucked up into the life of the stay-at-home mom with a husband who worked 12 hours days. Thus arrived the opportunity to spew my life into paragraphs on Page Five -- and I discovered a voice by writing about those noses, diapers, and swings.

But, here was the deal. When I wrote those essays, I didn't know what I was doing. I could write essays on daily life to fill page 5 til the cows came home. I knew what it was like to yearn for solitude, to go to the the bathroom alone, just once. To have a need for something I accomplished to last longer than 24 hours. These things I had no trouble understanding.

But as my children grew, I yearned for more of a challenge. Had sort of a did that/what's next attitude -- beyond what I could easily produce and understand. I wanted to discover a part of me that was buried beneath the needs of everyone else and necessities of every day life. I not only wanted to discover it, I wanted to write about the progress and write it well.

Therefore, I had to figure out where I was going.

This is where I curse myself. Why can't I ever be satisfied? Instead of fulfilling myself with what I know, resting on a familiar ledge, some invisible force always plods me toward a further distance, to an unknown. To a place much more difficult to master. To another edge. Sometimes only a lateral move. Sometimes back down before I get to another rise.

In 1996, I came across Sarah Ban Breathnach's book Simple Abundance, Warner Books, 1995. Following along with her daily messages of utilizing comfort to seek out the self I'd lost in the mire of motherhood, my grasp on the side of that edge became stronger. Even pulled myself up a bit to see a world out there on the horizon. At the end of that year long search in that book, I had before me my first completed journal and a photo journal cataloging images of things I liked - not just a hodge podge of ideas in my head, but a clear vision of my passions, a pattern. Equipped with this knowledge, I set forth, with a sense of organization, onto a new, yet unfamiliar writing path.

Obviously that path also had many uncertain turns and detours. Even huge mountains appeared before me as I took unfamiliar roads -- writing groups, critiques, deeper searches into my soul.

As I took classes and studied not only the essay, but also the craft of writing, my first attempts retreated into the familiar. If not for the prodding of some fine teachers who challenged me to search deeper, to explore where I didn't want to go, did my essays change from the simpler days of yore.

Often I wonder what it is about me that just can't be satisfied. Why I seem to automatically wander in and out of the fog seeking adventures that require more of me. That I truly do love to rock and loll and float, and spend a great deal of time doing that. Given that scenario, it would seem I'd not end up in more challenging places, that I'd seek where I wouldn't struggle like tackling the novel or short stories. A non-fiction proposal. Essays on my place in this world.

Or to discover why it is some of those essays I begin with such ease end up in my incomplete file, sometimes for years, in an effort to focus in on what I've learned. Perhaps I have not mastered the art of deciphering my words. Perhaps a further look is required, like James Reston, Anna Quindlin and Judith Warner. To look further into the words before me on the page. To believe the words have come from me.

To not be afraid to find how far off the original map I've journeyed. To not fear that my organization may be off. That the next map may not be within my grasp.

To be continued...