This just happened.

Andrew in truck
Originally uploaded by karijean

Andrew: Hey, can you do me a favor?

Me: What?

Andrew: Can you do me a favor?

Me: Yes, what?

Andrew: Can you do me a favor?

Me: Yes, Andrew, what favor?

Andrew: I'd like you to think of a favor, do it, and then tell me about it.

Me: ...

Andrew: Thanks, bye!

Me: What?

Summer Vacation

Double time
Originally uploaded by karijean

With the Fourth of July over (or, as Will says, "Happy Birthday Fourth!"), I'm staring down the gun at a long summer.

I know, poor me, right? It's hard to get sympathy about two* months off. To be fair, I work hard all year in order to earn this summer off. Plus, I get paid for crap, so I might as well get two months off--one of the very very few perks of teaching.**

Sometimes, though it doesn't really feel like a perk. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind not having to get up with an alarm in the morning. But to go from a world of daily deadlines where planning and organization can make or break you to absolutely aimless days is a little overwhelming.

I don't do aimless well. I do one of two things: I sink into a well of inertia which, yeah, good times! or rearrange every closet in my house while weeding the lawn and building a to-scale model of Portland's Pearl District.*** I may have a problem with finding a happy medium (ya think?)

In the meantime, take a look at Flickr. Fourth of July pictures are up (compare them with last year's! Lookit me, coming full circle!), and I'll be updating the Flickr stuff with pictures as I find a way to distract myself from having nothing to do. I've got some geocaching I did out in wine country, and I plan to do more around PDX and its environs.

Happy Fourth of July, happy summer everyone.

* Yes, it is only two months. June 20-something was our last day, and I have to return on August 20-something. Again, I know, poor me, but I just wanted to clear that up.

** Not that I don't love teaching, because I do. But it's a damn. Hard. Job. With very very few upsides. Objectively speaking, summer is one of the few.

***Or I rearrange someone else's basement. True story.

Rays

Rays
Originally uploaded by karijean

Back in civilization, there's nothing so awesome as a shower.

You know, I can dig this new hobby of ours, this "camping" thing. I feel tired and sore, but in a good way.

Click on the pictures to go to flickr, or click here to go to the set.

just a little humor on Thursday

What do I love about this comic? That it's hippie-knowledge crossed with geeky history crossed with a pun like my dad would make.

And then we'd all groan.

From xkcd the best collection of geek-math-love humor that I've ever seen.

Rube

I'm such an intense geek, I adore Rube Goldbergs. We had to make on in fifth grade, and I say "we" but really for the most part, it meant a kid and their parent. I wish we got chances to do creative stuff like that again. I tell you, if I taught AP Physics, this is what I'd have kids do for the month after the exam. I'd say, "the only requirement is you have a regulation golf ball go one meter, put out a candle, set off a mousetrap, be airborne at least once, and end in a paper cup." And just let them have at it. That'd be a cool class.

Bumbo

CBHQ

Craft Room, aka: a Saturday well spent.
Originally uploaded by karijean

I just wanted to post a link to the coolest found space I've ever had. For zero dollars last weekend, I made myself a bitching Crafty Bitch HQ.

Click on the picture to see more.

With summer officially TWO DAYS (!!!!) away, I can. Not. Wait. I already have one new project underway (we'll see how it goes--I may have harvested the lavender too early) and have a binder full of ideas for more.

Sometimes I'm mildly embarassed by how Crafty Bitch I am--it all sounds so like a woman whose username would be ZacksMama231. But then I realize that what I really prefer, what I really love, is to give gifts that I've had my hands on. That I put together thinking, I can't wait to hear what Gail thinks of this. Or, I wish I could see Lee's face when she opens this. As gifts, they're so much better than just another thing.

Added to the fact that to give meaningful gifts to the people I really love, there's not much I can purchase. I've pretty much exhausted the Only in Oregon gift plan--there's only so many times you can give marionberry jam before you're just weird. And for people like my parents--Lord love 'em--they will buy anything they want, need, or momentarily covet. They will buy it better, faster, and more expensive than I can. So short of finding that mythical, mystical gift They Didn't Even Know They Needed And/Or Wanted That Is Still Forty Bucks, I just end up buying them more Stuff.

So I like to make a gift. I give less Stuff that way, and what I do give means more. Plus I get the joy of planning and anticipation. It's win-win-win.

...and so it goes...

In an ass-crap shitty week that started with the dildo-cam doctor's appointment (that included this phrase: "...and that's... well, I don't know what that white spot is. We'll... huh. Need to test that."), proceeded to four nights in a row with five or fewer hours of sleep for various reasons, had a dining room chair finally collapse, just unfortunately while I'm sitting in it, and decide to take a big chunk of my quad with it (hellloooo, tetnus shot!) and ended with some really mean accusations that I was unprepared to field, there's a wee bright spot. A 7 pound, 11 ounce bright spot.

Mateo Andrew, born June 13th at 12:12 a.m. I'm an aunt! And he's a wee peanut with the cutest fingers this side of the... huh. It's actually the other side of the Mississippi. And Atlantic.

But really cute fingers. And nose. And everything else. That's what I'm getting at.

I'm an aunt, 2007! (part 1)

I have a nephew! 3.5 kilos, which teh interweb tells me is 7.7 pounds, so approximately 7 pounds, 11 ounces? ish?

No word on a name yet.

More deets as they come.

View out my back door.

View out my back door.
Originally uploaded by karijean

Some days are better than others.

Yesterday was a very fulfilling day. For once, I was glad it rained ("What do you call two days of rain in Portland?" "The weekend."). We've had a gorgeous June so far (want proof? go to flickr and see my camping pictures!) so I can't begrudge a day of rain. Moreover, I'd promised myself that THIS was the weekend to clean the basement.

And oh, did I.

Other reasons I have to be happy:

It's nine school days till summer.

Nine.

The sun's out today.

Andrew's nearly done with his book. Three chapters left and then I get to see my husband again! At least until his revisions are due.

Did I mention it's nine days til summer? Okay, technically, I suppose, it's like 11 days, but really, weekends don't count. And nine sounds so much smaller.

Nine. 9. neuf. divyet. nueve. 9.

I'm baaaaaaack!

AAAAAhhhhhhhh. Internet connectivity at last.

Our wireless access point had been slowly dying for a while. We'd be connected--then we werent--then we were--then we weren't. That was frustrating.

But not nearly so frustrating as when it'd died altogether.

Which led to lots of conversations that went like this:

"I can stop by Best Buy and pick up a new hub, but which one should I get?"

"Here, I'll go find one for you on the... ARGH!"

or

"Can you write down where we're going?"

"Yeah, I'll just go look it up on... ARGH!"

or

"You haven't uploaded pictures in forEVER!"

"I'll do it right after camping then... ARGH!"

Yeah.

Apparently our household is stupid dependent on magic invisible pictures that fly through the air to appear on our computer screens. And I found exactly which sites are blocked at school (YouTube, updating on blogspot, the comments sections of any blog) and which were not (blogs themselves, THANK GOD! I kept up to date on Go Fug Yourself!) and that I severely missed my RSS feeder.

But it's all better, all reconnected. There's nothing like going to your RSS feeds and seeing, oh look! Melissa's updated! TWELVE TIMES!

So stay tuned for new pictures on Flickr--soon, I swear--and other stories. But it's 11 and I've put off my usual Saturday morning chores to get re-updated on Pink is the New Blog and so now I have to go do some of the crap I've been saying I'd do all along.

Besides, now that I have the internet again, I can listen to NPR while cleaning the basement. So I'd better do it before our WAP dies again.

Different Day, Different Conversation

...so, the problem starts here.

By the washer and dryer?

Yes. And we attached this here.

Okayyy...

...and then we strung this up across here and drilled a hole through the wall here...

Yeahhhhh...

...where it attaches here.

Uh-huh.

This is where my husband plugs in his computer.

His.... computer?

Yup. Into this powerstrip that's plugged into that extension cord. And then there's this extension cord that's plugged into the power strip there that goes back here, and behind that, and around there, and then there's another power strip plugged into that.

Oh... God. What... what is in the power strip?

Well, there's the cable box, there, and then the AV tuner, and the DVD player and... oh, yeah, the projector and... oh! the speakers, those big ones over there. And, huh. There's another extension cord plugged into this power strip. I think it goes to that floor lamp over there, but I'm not sure.

Does... when... um. When you turn anything on, does anything happen, to, um, the other lights?

Oh, it goes to the XBox! Huh. I didn't know we had this many extension cords. Or power strips. Or extension cords in power strips. Wait, what? Does anything happen? Wow, I don't know. Here, lemme try.

NO! I mean, no, that's... okay.

Oh, okay.

I mean, it's not okay, this isn't okay. There is nothing about this that is okay!

Yeah, okay.

No! Not okay!

Right, yeah, okay. I MEAN! Bad! Bad us!

So can I see your panel?

Right. It's over here.

Uh... huh.

What?

Well, it's... there's... there's a little too much going on here.

Oh, well, that is certainly a shock.

Hrm.

Get it? A shock?

Yes. I got it.

A shock? Because it's electricity? And we're overpluggers?

Right. I got it. Shock. Funny. You'll need a new subpanel.

Um, okay.

I'm afraid to ask but... anything else you want me to take a look at?

Nope! I think this is the only electrical health hazard we have to pour money in after. If you want to take a look at our furnace, though...

Dear god no. The heart trembles.

Right then, that's it.

It's certainly enough. I mean! Should I fax the estimate to you? You... don't have a fax plugged in anywhere down here, do you? Please. I beg you, say no.

Yeah, no fax.

Right. I'll mail the estimate to you.

Great. The heart trembles.

...

Get it? Because you said that and...

I got it. The estimate will be in the mail tomorrow. No, no, I can show myself out. In the dark. Please. Don't turn anything on until I leave. Please.

Conversation

So... how long do we have to wait?

For what?

For it to do its thing.

I think it's done it.

No, I mean, thirty seconds? five minutes?

No, really. I don't think it's going to do any more than it's already done.

...

A second line isn't going to just, y'know, appear.

...

Yeah.

A view into a week without a spounse

Monday: Yay! Get to be naked and lazy! And awww, Matilda misses him!
Tuesay: Please, really, stop whining Matilda. Go out, be Young Single and go out.
Wednesday: No, really, stop whining Matilda. Clean kitchen. Have hour-long phone conversation on speakerphone as he drunkenly watches American Idol on East Coast time. Conversation goes like this:
"And then that guy, that dog guy..."
"Dog Guy?"
"That guy who always says, 'Dawwwg...'"
"Randy Jackson."
"He's dancing with... that ditzy lady!"
"Paula Abdul."
"And that English guy!"
"Simon Cowell."
"He just pinched her! And the guy finalist!"
"Blake."
"He looks weird! And that singer..."
..."
"Who sings that song about wings!"
"Bette Midler? Wind Beneath My Wings?"
"Yeah! She's awful!"
Go to bed at 12. Not because anything is keeping you up. But because that giant bed all empty kind of sucks.

Thursday: Fuck this shit. Drink wine (which I mistakenly typed as 'whine') for dinner.

Anticipating:
Friday: go out. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Saturday: Clean house like a demon so spouse thinks I ALWAYS LIVE THIS WAY. Pick him hup at 9. Make him swear in blood to never be gone this long again.

My Chemical Romance

I subbed for a chem teacher today, and it was a disaster. A toxic fumes, caustic chemical, shattered glass disaster.

Whee!

Teachers have "prep periods", one period a day where we ostensibly are able to prepare for the rest of our day. Leaving alone the absurdity of being able to prepare for five fifty minute periods--that's two hundred and fifty minutes (I'm a math teacher!)--in fifty minutes. Yes, that's ten minutes per class, in which to do our grading, call parents, chase down problem children, plan engaging new lessons, write tests, grade tests, file old paperwork, and maybe get a cup of coffee. For each class. (Yes, the cup of coffee for each class too. You think it's easy to be at work at 7:00 each morning, facing teenagers?)

Ahem. Leaving that aside.

By contract, that fifty minutes is our own. (Unless, of course, some other teacher, condemned to the hated "traveling teacher" realm takes over your classroom during your prep, and then your prep is only sort of your own. I've been a travelling teacher, it sucks, but it also sucks not being able to use your own damn room during your own damn prep.)

Ahem, again.

Anyway, that fifty minutes is our own. Sometimes, though, there's a need for a sub (note to anyone in southwest Washington: desperate need for subs!). Since my prep is first period, I often get the call to cover for late subs or late call-ins. It's an extra $30 each time I do it, so hey, free money! Plus I get to see other teachers' rooms, other classes styles, it's interesting. Plus, $30!

But today wasn't awesome.

The teacher who made the late call... he's not good. I mean, he's a great teacher, but dude's had a rough rough year and I can't talk much about it, but I don't think he's doing so well. Mentally. So it's a bit heart-breaking to see him kinda sorta falling apart.

So there I am taking over his class. Chemistry. Not just chemistry, but advanced placement chemistry. And what does he leave me with, as a sub plan? A lab. And not just any lab, but one involving hydrochloric acid, and zinc, and sodium hifuckyouupate and technotronic burnoffyourskinate. And heating things up and then burning shit up.

Awesome.

So I'm just sorta, you know, haning out, because I can describe significance levels and p-values and student t distributions, but ask me about chemical compounds and I'm all drooly and "Whaaaa?" But I'm noticing that I'm coughing and feeling kind of burny in the back of my throat and I'm thinking, um, this can't be right...

These are AP kids, and five of them I know from my little geek squad, so I said a few things like, "Should that be smoking like that?" and "Maybe you should be heating these caustic chemicals under the vent hood sucking oven thing?", impressing them all, I'm sure, with my wicked smarts.

And then I hear, "Wait! How stupid ARE you?"

Never a good thing to overhear while heating things that end with "-ic acid".

And then I hear the glass shattering. And I see the "-ic acid" stuff going everywhere. Apparently one of the other students poured cold sulfuric acid (?) on the heated zinc solution (?) and caused the glass dish to, um, well, break into a bunch of pieces.

One of the students turns to me and says, "Um. Maybe we need a real chemistry teacher in here?"

Ya think?

I go off in search of a real chemistry teacher. He looks at me and sighs through his nose. "You know," he says to me, weaving through the hall to get back to the classroom, "we think that AP kids can handle more, but that means we sometimes forget something." He looks at me. "They're still kids." He heads into the classroom to decide which things can be touched by human skin (not much) and which will cause extreme pain when touched (most surfaces), and orders the kids to clean up.

And then the bell rings.

I'm an awesome sub!

Knowing.

One of the hard things of dealing with infertility is that you don't know who else is. Because it deals with such personal issues (like MY CROTCH), most people don't, you know, bring it up around the water cooler. So when you're dealing with the various indignities of intra-uterine insemination and the cost of dildo-cam appointments that aren't covered by health insurance and what it's like walking back into the fertility clinic that you triumphantly--and pregnantly--sailed out of three months ago, it's hard to find those "Girl, I know" moments.

As good as good friends are--as sympathetic a sounding board as they can be, and level headed as they can be when Clomid is making you cry for reasons you can't even put into words and as you apologize they can say, "I think that's Clomid talking, hon,"--as lucky as you can be to get that support, even those friends (especially those friends) will acknowledge that there's aspects to your situation that while they might understand, they don't truly know.

I should know, I have great friends. So that when my family or inlaws make well-meaning but bonehead moves like sending me emails about how great adoption is, or how "it's meant to be, so it'll happen", those great friends are there to be outraged on my behalf. When yet another friend finds out they got pregnant the very first time they tried and isn't that funny? these wonderful saintly friends will let me rage and rant and cry until I'm ugly and they still love me (I think). I'm super super lucky on that point. But... they don't, and they can't, and I wouldn't want them to know

And I just don't have the wherewithal to go make Infertile Friends because blech. I don't want to be friends with someone just because they can't get knocked up either.

Which makes my newish friend a lifesaver. I'll call her Rhoda.

Rhoda is really a friend of a friend. We've orbited past each other for a decade or more. I've known of her for a long time, but we've met and hung out for the past few years a couple times a year and I've always really liked her. She can be crass (like, um, someone else I might know) and that's a good thing. She can be funny. She can be thoughtful. She's not embarassed to be blunt and to have a sense of humor about things that suck.

And some things suck a lot.

Turns out we see the same fertility doc. The same Doogie Howser has his face in each of our crotches.

Ordinarily, this might be awkward.

With us, tonight, it was a chance to compare pubic grooming.

We drank cheap beer because her second IUI just failed and I'm preparing for IUI#3 and we're both wired on Clomid and we toasted the crappy things People Who Don't Know Better say.

"It's good you miscarried because it means something was wrong."

"At least you know you can get pregnant!"

"Just relax! I have friends who..."

"Have you ever thought of adoption?"

We made each other cry and made each other laugh and bought each other another round because hell, we're not pregnant so we might as well drink! And Mother's Day is Sunday! And I know I'll get a call from my mom and I dread her fucking sympathy! And then...

... and then we talked about how her husband doesn't understand that mesh tank tops are not hot and my husband accidentally shaved his head last week (yes, it can be done) and where is there good shopping when you're not a size eight and what's it like working with all guys (as it turns out: a lot like working with all teenagers, so a lot of great same-experiences going on there) and we talked about things that had nothing and everything to do with all this crazy shit we're both putting our bodies through.

And suddenly five hours passed.

Because she knows. I don't have to explain why I threw a full glass when I found out my sister-in-law was pregnant even though I really am happy she's pregnant, or why I resent having to be the one to email pregnant people to let them know it's okay to talk to me, infertility isn't catching. She doesn't have to preface a story with "I know so-and-so's trying to help but..." when explaining the crushing blow someone inadvertantly landed or feel lame for describing crying her eyes out when hearing that her sister got pregnant from a guy who isn't really sure he wants kids. Because I know.

But also because we both know that we are more than our bruising desire to be pregnant, and so having a conversation meander off into the embarassing story of a dream one of us may or may not have had about her high school students (it's a dream! we can't be held responsible for our dreams!) isn't weird or awkward because it's what friends do. And then we could both twirl around back onto the topic of our pregnant friends who complain about gaining weight because they're pregnant or how tough their choices are and we both know that anger that has no place to go and we aren't scared by that anger from each other.

We're not friends because we get thrice-montly dildo cams and count those two-week-waits every month... Our friendship as the two of us that isn't mediated by our mutual friend is still new-ish, but I think this is the beginning of something good.

In fact, I know.

Essentially on Empty

They did it. It's done. It can't be undone, and whatever got done is now done.

They dang did take that darned ol' AP test. It's... over. Essentially.

I mean, sure, yeah, we have a month of school. (six weeks for non-seniors, thank you snow days!) And in that month, we'll be "working" on a "project". So, yeah. Technically, not over. But in essence, the statistical essence that has permeated my every waking thought and several of my sleeping ones (including some great "dreams" where my necklace was coming alive to choke me, or where my teeth were falling out of my head), we are done. We cannot be undone. We cannot be more done. We are as done as we can get and we can't get donner, but then, we can't get less done either.

However they did--whoever passed, or didn't pass, whatever--I'm so freaking proud of them for sticking through this with me the whole damned way.

But we're done. They're done. It's done and I can't squeeze in one iota more of doneness.

I could keep going. Because I'm sure this is going to sink in.

Any minute now.

Days

Yesterday started with giving blood and running into a friend at the next little recliney bench("Hey, anything new?" "Well, our son was born." "Well, yeah, besides that?").

It rounded the corner teaching Will how to watch the Kentucky Derby, substituting apple juice for mint julep*. "See, they lead the horses into the little rooms... and close the gates... and now ready? set? GO! GO! GO!" Given the roomful of adults slightly tipsy from National Home Brewers Day** and tasty tasty mint juleps, in the end, Will's only description of the Derby ends up something like this, "Horses! Go Fast! Real Loud! Yayyyyyy!!!" with lots of clapping to celebrate.

Then my day gently turned the corner as I chaperoned Prom. Some things (the hair, sprayed to withstand a tornado, the tuxes making the boys ever so slightly uncomfortable and unnatural) never change, while others (cleavage, dear GOD THE CLEAVAGE) certainly do.

No real point to this posting, other than to notice and earmark how very weird and whiplashy yesterday was.


-----
* (which, except for the spring of mint inserted by a delicious mint julep maker person, look startlingly similar, so I can understand Will's confusion).

**Seriously, National Home Brewers Day, the Derby, and Cinco de Mayo, all on the same day: it's a wonder we any of us have livers left.

S1GNS

"...so do you think it's PMS?"

"I dunno. I mean, I don't feel especially PMSy. Except..."

"Except what?"

"I did cry tonight at an episode of NUMB3RS."

"..."

"What? It was really sweet moment where the guy on death row got to meet his daughter for the first time, and all he could say was, "Sorry.""

"NUMB3RS?"

"Yeah, okay, so maybe PMS."

Wanna teach AP?

They say, so, you wanna teach AP?

And you think, oh my god, I can't believe that (a) they think I'm smart enough to and (b) I'm experienced enough to without having to wait until I've been at the school for forty billion years and (c) I'll get to teach kids who are, y'know, MOTIVATED, and so you say, of course, sure! even though it's possibly been, say, perhaps, a DECADE since you took that ONE CLASS in the subject. (Somehow, maybe, they think because you come from business you have some deep insight into the subject. You let that misconception lie, because, hey, you get to teach AP!)

You don't think about the fact that EVERY DAY you have to make up what you're going to teach them.

And GOD FORBID they ask questions! Because if it isn't about today's (okay, maybe also tomorrow's) lessons, you really truly might not know. Given, there's worse things than saying, "Okay, I don't remember, but I'll get back to you." But still.

And you really really really REALLY don't think about what that week (month!) before the AP test is really like. When you worry that that one part that you didn't emphasize enough is what is gonna be the difference between them passing with a 3 or not passing. When you think, okay, I didn't teach probability well enough and now they're all stressed about it even though it's not that tough or really that important so they're spending time on probability even though it's only like 10% of the test when they COULD be spending studying time on inference tests! Which are way more important!

You don't think you'll be waking up at 4 a.m. wondering what the HELL are you doing in class today and HOW will you get through the day and OH DEAR GOD WHAT IF YOU'RE LETTING EVERYONE DOWN????

You don't think of that.

You just think, "AP! That's cool!"

Of course, you also don't think you'll be falling in love, just a little bit, with these kids who are leaving the school next year and that you'll never see again. You don't think that you'll ride the acceptance roller coaster with them as they sort the next major chapter of their lives out. You don't think of how momentous senior year is, and relationships are, and how you'll deal with all of these almost-adults and how you just want them to come back in five years and let you know how they're doing.

You don't think of that either, of how they're going to take this tiny bit of your heart with them when they leave.

You just think, "AP! That means I don't have anything to do after the AP test! for a month until the end of school!"

You don't think that your life, until that AP test, is a slave to What The AP Test Tests and that you'll always feel inadequate. That getting these kids to pass will take over your life and you'll spend--yes--it's true--FIFTEEN HOUR DAYS because you have pizza-bribed study sessions because you just want them to pass, if they could pass then you haven't let anyone down.

Good Gods and Goddesses. My life, until May 8th, is a walking, living, breathing ulcer.

"Yeah, AP! That'd be great!"

Anatomy of a weekend.

Usually, I overschedule myself.

Overscheduled Me is a total bitch. I mean, a BEEEEYOTCH of epic proportions.

Unscheduled me? Muuuuuch more mellow.

The side benefit of hermitting and cocooning because I feel sorry for myself is that my social calendar has slowed immensely. Not that friends aren't inviting me places; they are. Just that I'm being much more choosy. Not that my friends' events don't sound delectable; they do. Just that it's really really hard to beat sitting on my front porch doing a crossword puzzle* with a glass of wine.

This weekend I had a very short list of goals. The big advantage to a really short list of goals? Easy to accomplish.

Laundry? Check.
Clean the front rooms? Check.
Dig up the nasty-ass old-lady rosebushes** and replant something, ANYTHING? Check.

I ROCK. AND I'm not stressed.

BOOYAH.

----
*Note: given my family's obsession with crossword puzzles, and now the revelation that my high school math teacher has become a Will Shortz Published New York Times Crossword Author, I have more supplies of books of Sunday crossword puzzles than any one person should have. Spiral bound and otherwise. I have more crossword puzzles than I could do in, literally, a month of Sundays.

It's AWESOME.

**When we bought our house, it had recently passed from Mrs. S, who had inhabited the house for thirty-odd years. She left her mark in three--THREE--different freezers, one of which had a handle that had broken off so it couldn't be opened (leaving the piecrust, steak and fish (!!!) in it until the junkers came to pick it up), two nicotine-soaked rooms (that took one full week of painting to keep the tar from soaking back through the primer and paint) and yard full of prissy prissy roses. I got rid of three bushes and one puffball rose tree.

Next up: the dumbass droopy trees in the front yard. Their asses are... well... grass.

Repetition makes the heart grow fonder.

Games Will and I have made up with his parents aren't looking:

Put your hand under your jaw, in a fist (a la Rodin's The Thinker). Now, without moving your fist or lower jaw, open your mouth (will necessitate moving the upper part of your head back, sort of like Guy Smilie from Sesame Street). Go "Ya! Ya! Ya!" while doing so. Giggle until you lose breath. Repeat. And then repeat again. And then repeat again.

Put cardstock insert from magazine on top of tennis ball can. Blow card off. Scream with glee. Repeat. And then repeat again. And then repeat again.

Put (teeny wee) hat on Kari's (ginormous, huge) head. "Blow" off (with perhaps, reportedly, assistance from a flinging motion of Kari's hand). Repeat. And then repeat again. And then repeat again.

Help Woody and Buzz perform "I'm a Little Teapot" in basso profundo. Applaud their performance. Repeat. And then repeat again. And then repeat again.

The game that started it all: Put block on head. Tilt head so block falls off. Put block on someone else's head. Laugh with mad insanity when it falls off. Repeat. And then repeat again. And then repeat again.

Telephonophobia

I just cleared out my voicemail on my cell phone. Yeah. The messages were, oh, um, what, crap. Like, they went all the way back to March 2nd. And um, the mailbox was, er, full. (To be fair, half the messages were from Andrew, who will call back every five minutes.)

I'm a terrible phone person. I don't chat very well. If I'm mildly upset or stressed, I reeeeeeally don't chat well. Emily has a very funny story about me "chatting" with her on a day when I had been particularly stressed, where I thought I was being all chill, and apparently I was coming off more, oh, serial-killery.

And cell phones... gar. Really, just don't try to get a hold of me via cell phone. Chances are about 4 in 10 that I even have it with me. Add in "forget to charge" and "has she even turned it on?" and you're much better off either figuring out who I'm with or just giving up on an immediate rendezvous and leaving me a message at home, because eventually Andrew will have to listen to the messages.

My discomfort with the phone extends to listening to messages. They are just a reminder of how much I suck at answering the phone, remembering my phone, checking my messages. I'm sure that every message left will be someone disappointed in me, so I just don't want to hear it.

Yay, maturity!

So yesterday when I answered the phone from my brother, that's a testament to how much I love him. Our conversation lasted all of five minutes, though, because as soon as he told me his wife was pregnant (surprise!), I was incapable of forming coherent sentences.

I broke.

Broken.

Pieces. Everywhere.

I'm really happy for you, but I can't. I. It's. I can't.

and I hung up.

Yay, maturity!

This is not going to help my fear of the phone.

Today is gonna suuuuuuuuck.

Yahoo!

I woke up at two!

Today will be great fun!

And tho it's technically just begun,

Hours I've been up is four

And there will be so many more

Filled with teens and work,

My job I cannot shirk.

Yippee!

Don't you wish you were me!

Drill down deep.

When I was in school, we had one tornado drill a year, and maybe one fire drill a year. Everyone has fire drills, but tornado drills are peculiar to FlyOver Country. In a tornado drill, kids are lead out to the hallways, away from windows, where we knelt, put our foreheads on our knees, and laced our fingers over "the most vulnerable parts of our necks" in an effort to protect our, what, carotid artery? from, uh, flying debris? I dunno, we were ten and did what we were told!

Now, by state law, my high school must have one drill per month (which usually means it's on the 30th or 31st, at whatever time is possibly least convenient). This being the Pacific Northwest and not, say, Nebraska, we're not so big on tornado drills. Instead, of course, we do earthquake drills. At this school, earthquake drills look eerily like atomic bomb "Duck and Cover" drills. Which seems to me, um... well, admittedly, I've never been in an earthquake (that I could feel) but still. Wouldn't, uh, outside, like, out from under a roof be a better choice?

In addition to earthquake drills, though, we have another drill. A Stranger Danger drill. I draw my curtains, lock my door (buy, uh, opening my door and using my key, which I'm sure I'll have no problem with should I ever get the "this is not a drill" announcement) and we all are supposed to do is huddle as far away from doorways as possible.

Which is awesome.

My school is an open campus, a little mini-college campus. I'm in one of the smallest buildings that's right next to the parking lot. There's no way to lock down the campus. Almost everyone's classroom opens right up to the outside. (Hey, great plan for Portland! No, really!) I'm sure, when it was built in the eighties, there was no reason to think anything about it.

Since the New Year:

In January, in Tacoma Washington, one student shot another.

Last week, in the surburb of Portland (the one that's oh, half-a-mile from my home) a fifteen year old boy, angry at his mother and two teachers, took some shots.

And worse, so, so, SO much worse:

Today, at Virginia Tech, in Blacksburg Virginia, four students survived a classroom massacre by pretending to be dead.

Despite our lockdown drills, I don't ever really imagine this happening to us. I'm sure they didn't either. You can't operate that way. Any time my mind wanders into territory even near wondering about it, it skitters away and shies away almost instantly. The image of a stranger walking into my room with the intent to do me or my students harm terrifies me and angers me with such a protective fierceness that my mouth gets dry. Those are my kids. I've read People magazine stories about students overpowering intruders and it gives me chills. These are my kids.

"School Shooting" is now a term, separate and different from just, y'know, "shooting." Statistically, for all that, not something I'd call a movement or anything, but it's what I do, where I work, who I am, and scares the shit out of me.

And I feel completely powerless. And I ache for the faculty, students, staff and families at Virginia Tech. And I dread the revelations over the next few days of "if-only" and "I never thought". And when I think about it happening to my kids, my heart goes still.

It's official!

I just heard the beginning of summer!

Anyone able to take the stress away?

I hate days like this. I had to call two sets of parents under the pretext that I wanted to verify whether an absence was excused or not. I say pretext because it was a test day, and there is no way on earth those boys didn't know it was a test day, and mysteriously, they were only absent for my class. Plus, they are friends. And both absent together. I'm not always too bright but I'm pretty sure I know why they were absent.

But that means they get a zero for that test. The crap of it is, I really like both of them. If just by psychic force of will I could get them to work and to think, I would, in a New York minute. As it is, they are probably going to fail the class. And that sucks. They brought it on themselves, but it really sucks. Plus, I think I got them in a LOT OF TROUBLE at home.

I tried to play it as fair as possible. I warned both of the boys, told them what the penalty was, and gave them the opportunity to talk to their parents first. I had spoken with both parents on other occasions, and knew they were straight shooters and wouldn't excuse the kids to get them out of a punishment they'd created. One of the boys took me up on it and fessed up to his mom before I talked to her, which was good. The other? Whooooo boy, I think he's in a heap of trouble.

My inner dialogue: I didn't make him skip class. I didn't make him skip class on a test day. I didn't make him lie about it.

But still, I hate being a grown up sometimes.

Bridges.

I've been trying to process my parents visit. I don't remember visits with my parents being this... difficult, for lack of a better word.

Of course, the last time they visited, I had lots of percoset and dilaudid, so maybe, I shouldn't trust my memory.

Just maybe.

I want them to have a good time when they're here. I want them to enjoy themselves. I just don't know how to merge my desires with, y'know, reality.

Amazingly, it took my mom two days to give me the head-tilt-"How-are-you?" Note: don't start conversations that way.

I spent days and days and days, cleaning our house, setting up our guest room, planning and researching, and hoping. And Mom and Dad stayed at the Comfort Inn ("We don't want to make you uncomfortable."). Dad got impatient with everything we planned. Sightseeing Oregon's beautiful waterfalls like a drive-by attack? A short walk on a flat path through a beautiful park? Looking into pioneer history? Ashland's antiques?

I finally broke down and asked, "What do YOU like to do on vacations?"

This, I asked of a man who went to Bermuda to play bridge. And that was all he did.

He looked at me and grimaced, and ground out, "Horseback riding." Which, if you met him--you know was sarcasm. Thanks Dad.

It wasn't all bad. I mean, I love my folks. I think I was just hoping for too much. They hadn't seen me in almost a year, and as previously noted, that one time they've seen me in the past year and a half, I was stoned as all freaking hell on prescription pain killers, so where on Earth did I think insta-bonding would come from? You think maybe I put too much weight on My Parents Will Love Me More If I Entertain Them Really Well? Maybe?

Nah.

On the bright side: I now know how to play bridge. A really really lot of bridge. Hours and hours of bridge.

Because that's what my dad does on vacation.

Filler

So, update on the family vacation will come later, suffice it to say: I'm alive, we're all still speaking to each other, and Andrew has not threatened divorce, so we're all good.

IN the meantime, because everyone has already seen Blood, I give this for your viewing enjoyment:

To my high school students: For Reals, Yo.

Communication.

Dear 2007,

Okay, I've slammed you in the past, but in my defense, you've done some really shitty things.

Okay, okay, this isn't going to be a blame sort of letter. It's a new beginnings sort of letter. So I don't want to start off on that negative foot.

Yay, I got my period! My first period of 2007! (if you don't count that four weeks of bleeding that totally included my embryo, but whatever) It's a chance to start over, that kind of restart you never get with a boyfriend who swore he didn't mean to give head to your roommate because oops it just happened and it's really you he loves or your high school friend who totally sent that note that you intercepted calling you a bitch even though she totally denied that it was so in her handwriting even though it totally was because no one else made those y's with the crazy "artsy" loop. Those restarts were never, you know, untainted.

Ahem. Not that I'm holding a grudge or anything. Clean slate, hormones! New beginnings, uterus! I loooooove you, 2007! You wanna come over, just hang out? No, yeah, we're totally friends!

Seriously, a friend just gave me the best compliment tonight. "You're much less angry," she said. Which is true. I am able to be focused on what can still happen, what the next few months can hold. Mostly. Let's not say I'm not totally panicked about how I'm going to react when the gush of babies that's about to happen does, in fact, occur (blessings of health upon the half-dozen of babies due to friends and family because the opposite is too calamitous to contemplate) because I am panicked but I choose not to focus on that. When that happens and if I'm not knocked up at the time, then I'll deal with that when I deal with that (probably with chocolate and alcohol, because hey, at least I'll be able to drink! silver linings, right?) but what I can focus on right now? I'm bleeding which means SOMETHING is still working the way it should and that means I'm that much closer to trying again.

It's not awkward at all that I don't know how to talk to loved ones who are pregnant. It's not awkward at all that I don't know how to communicate the sadness that's always there, the anger that is still there. It's not uncomfortable at all that I see my relationships changing because I just don't possess the fortitude to admit that the relationship has changed just as a result of circumstances and be okay with that. I don't want to blame you for that, 2007, but you are kind of a guilty bystander to all of that. Life is unfair, at its base, and that's not your fault anymore than it's all these mommma-to-be's faults.

You do, however, make an extremely convenient scapegoat.

So I'm trying not to blame you, 2007. I really am. And I'm trying to be okay with everyone else being as fertile as the fucking Nile Delta ("hahah! we got pregnant the first time we tried! Isn't that funny! And awkward as all fucking hell? Hahaha!") because it's not their fault either.

So can you do us a favor? It's not our fault either? You know? So, kinda, cut us some slack? Because that'd be great.

Thanks.
Me.

Thanks be.

It's spring break. It's the first day of spring break, nine sweet, holy days in which I'm sure I'm meant to contemplate the fact that Jesus rose from the Dead, but instead I get to do whatever the hell I want. Which involves my parents coming to stay for a week.

I"m not anxious.

No, not at all.

First off, they've never visited for more than two days before. Second, they've never visited on their own. Third, they've never visited because I guilted the hell out of them, singing the refrain of "You Go See My Siblings All The Time" and "Plus You Screwed Us On Christmas", with the added encore of "And That Birthday Gift? Who's Sorry Now!" in three part harmony. It was like Row Row Row Your Boat sung in a round, only with more guilt. In my defense, I never thought they'd seek retribution with seven straight days.

So They're Coooooooming!

We're going to Ashland to see the Oregon Shakespeare Festiveal, which isn't so much Shakespeare so much as it's Plays Which Include Shakespeare and not so much a Festival as Plays All Year Long (We Have Them Too, Y'Know). We actually have tickets to see a Stoppard play, which my little drama-girl heart is totally thudding for. But other than that? We'll play it by ear.

And hopefully we'll find lots of things to do, or my dad might end up reframing the walls in my basement while my mom buys lots of shoes.

Why I didn't go to the gym today

5:00 Wake up.

5:25 Realize that the clock had not, in fact, read 6:00 like I'd thought. But now I'm showered. And dressed.

5:45 Might as well have breakfast.

6:10 Might as well go to work.

6:30 Grade the quizzes I was supposed to grade this weekend, but didn't because my geek squad WENT TO THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP AND TOTALLY WON AND IT ROCKED.

7:00 Students! Hi! You are all very loud! And I have not had my coffee yet! I swear, I'll be right back!

7:05 Get hung up on the office as everyone wants to congratulate me on my geek squad WHO ARE NOW CERTIFIABLY THE BEST IN THE STATE AND PROBABLY THE BEST IN THE NORTHWEST AND PERHAPS THE BEST IN THE COUNTRY THEY ROCK THAT HARD.

7:20 Get back to my classroom just as zero period starts. I have ten students in asking for help.

7:50 Zero period over before I ever found anything even slightly resembling a groove. A grooveless, groove-free, nongrooving zero period.

7:55 My prep period starts in which I need to (a) finish grading quizzes (b) plan for the class where I'm to be observed by the principal (c) write a test (d) write some review sheets and (e) something else, and it must have been what I did because I certainly didn't do (a) through (d), but I'll be damned if I can remember what I did.

8:55 Stats class. Three people--THREE--have done their homework. Put off test one day. In the last three minutes of class, get a call from a local newspaper about my geek squad WINNING FIRST PLACE IN THE ENTIRE STATE BECAUSE THEY ROCK THE HARDEST. I ask if I can email her more details later, but I'm teaching class right now.

9:50 Oh, Hi, Principal M! Yeah, I'm totally prepared to teach this class (what was (b) in my prep? shit shit shit! it's not, like, totally obvious I am faking my way through this class and am, in fact, completely pitted out right now, is it? shit shit shit!)

10:35 Can forty five minutes go more slowly?

10:40 Class over. Thank you sweet jesus for not actually stopping time, even though, I have to admit, it totally and completely felt like it, but I'm not holding grudges, baby jesus, I swear I'm not.

10:45 Give the same lesson plan another go. Equally shitty. Crap. Can't blame the principal's presence on the shitfest that was 3rd period.

11:25 In the last ten minutes of class, get a call from newspaper two because my geek squad IS THE BEST IN THE STATE AT THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS THAT THEY TOTALLY WON BECAUSE OF THE EXCESS OF ROCKING THAT HAPPENED. Get the students together? For a picture? No problem! Yeah, just send your photographer down! Yeah, absolutely! Well, lunch is in ten minutes, and it lasts half an hour, so send him down in, what, say forty five minutes? Yeah, noon, noon-fifteen. That'd be great!

11:35. Lunch. Shit shit shit. Email due to newspaper one. What does she want? Totally forgot and can't read my message to myself. Get as detailed as possible, she can cut what she wants. And then, newspaper two! What do I have to do to get permission for photographers to, y'know, photograph the students? Where are they? How do I get them here? Oh! Trophies! Where are the trophies? Gotta get the trophies. And how do I get permission? And someone's gotta be in my fifth period class while I'm... hey, can you cover my fifth? Great! AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY CO-ADVISOR HAS A SUB TODAY??? AHHHHHH! And I have to find some food. Food. Where can I... right, lunchroom, cafeteria, buy a sandwich and some Sun Chips. Put sandwich on my desk I'll... get to it. Soon. CRAP--that's the bell? Lunch is over?

11:15--thanks for covering my fifth period. This'll be, like, five minutes.

11:20 Nah, you should just take a picture of the kids, they're great, they did all the work (plus, have you NOTICED this giant zit in the middle between my nose and upper lip? I mean, it's a totally bi-colored pulsing MONSTROSITY! No WAY am I committing that to photgraphic record!), 'kay, great you guys are... no? not done? Oh, no problem at all...

11:45 Shit shit shit shit! Sorry that took so long I TOTALLY owe you a covered first period free gratis anytime kthxbieee! Okay, kids, buckle your seatbeltS, we're about to do fifty minutes worth of proofs in twenty! Wheeee! Cuz this lesson didn't suck hard enough the first two times I did it today, it has to suck balls even worse! AWESOME!

1:10 Oh, hi sixth period. So, yeah, what were we doing today? Right. Review. I. Um. Do you mind if I eat my sandwich first?

2:00 Thank God end of school day. Oh, hi... you... right. Wanted to take your test today because you're leaving for China tomorrow. Huh. Right, that test that I... no, I totally have it written I just haven't... oh, you have something else to do first? Yeah, fine, do that, I'll have the test for you at 2:30. Shit shit shit shit shit.

2:10 Newspaper number three. I... they were great. It's all just... can I call you back? Because I just might die soon.

2:30 No, yeah, kiddo, I totally have the test for you. Here, why don't you start the free response while I finish... proofreading the multiple choice.

3:00 See? Here's the multiple choice, totally typo free!

3:03 Ha! Ha ha ha! Isn't it funny? See where it says "confidencer"? Hee! That should so say "confidence"!

3:06 Ha! Ha ha ha. Um. That place where it says "pyrothesis"? Yeah, I don't even know what that means. I think it is supposed to say "hypothesis."

3:10 Ha. Ha. Crap. Number 5, where it says "now" that really should say "not". Yeah, it really does change the meaning of the question, doesn't it?

3:12 Ah, hell, don't even bother to answer #7. I don't even know what I was trying to say.

4:00 Holy hell, how is it four already?

5:00 Sweet she-gods of Jerusalem, it's five? I.... have to leave. I... what the hell? When did that happen? Baby jesus, are you trying to mess with time again?

5:45 Hi hon, I'm home! How was my... ? What? DAMMIT. No, I didn't go to the dentist. Yes, I forgot completely about it. No, I know exactly where I was at four. Yes, I'll reschedule. No, I don't have the other doctor's phone number, and No, I didn't call her, and Yes, you can call and make an appointment all you want.

6:45 Ahhhhh, Screw Kappa Napa, have I ever told you how very very very much I love you?

Ahhh, molding young minds is my job

As said by one of my students yesterday:

"Ms H! I couldn't find your Myspace page! I mean, I googled tattoos, kickball and teaching, and I couldn't find anything."

Hee. And yet still more Hee. With a side of BWAHAHA and some snicker on top.

This weekend.

Dear Matilda,

Please don't whine so much. One, because it breaks my heart, and two, because I miss him too.

Love,
Your mama

Dilemma at the Gym.

I was working out on Tuesday, and I picked an elliptical trainer thingy that had a good view of the Who Wants to be a Millionaire with captions because, well, it's trivia and if it's trivia then I can be entertained for that entire time and so that with my wee little iPod shuffle (that's orange! I love this wee little thing! It's so wee, I'm destined to lose it in about 90 days, but it's perfect for working out! can't you tell by my exclamation points?) piping my workout music into my ears and the trivia, ye gods, the trivia for my eyes (although some of it--yikes, "Finish this phrase: a good man is hard to..." seriously?) I would hardly notice the half hour passing and I don't need to worry about accidentally being introspective or dwelling on anything and it's like this perfect storm of how to get Kari to actually like (or maybe just Hate Less) working out.

Except there was one teeeeeny flaw in this plan: commercials. And it really felt like it would be question, and then we'll be right back to see if she can answer another dumb-shit question! question, and then stay tuned! question and then Febreeze for all your things with surfaces! So my attention would wander just a bit.

I purposely put a little hand towel over the readout when I'm on one of those torture devices machines because if I pay attention to the time as it passes, that's all I pay attention to, and then I barely make it to 15 minutes. If, however, I can not notice? I can easily make it to thirty or even forty minutes. It's awesome. So distracting me is a very big priority for me.

So there I am, annoyed by the ads broken up by wanna-be trivia, desperately searching or something to pay attention to that wouldn't make me the Creepy Person at the Gym. Focusing on the ass in front of you? Someone will eventually notice. So eyes up! at the TV! at all times! is the unspoken rule.

My eyes are scanning the TVs, and it's like, afternoon news (car crashes! and a fire! and a car crash! and guess what, it might rain tomorrow), ESPN (hey, I hear there's something about basketball going on?), local news, Scarborough Country (even though we're in a super-liberal town in a pretty liberal part of it, so really, wtf? I mean, Trader Joe's is across the street!), and then... Oprah.

How bad could it be?

It just so happened to be showing an episode on thirteen families in Charlotte who adopted twenty-eight different children--teenagers!--from an orphanage. In Liberia. And then a gay couple who had fostered twenty one different kids and adopted four of them and were in the process of adopting, like, sixteen more (that poor kid who was left out...). And then. Then. Then it was of the family who had a set of identical quadruplets, without fertility drugs, just pow! bang! bang! bang! four beautiful daughters. The family's name would make a fiction editor's eyes roll until they could see their own brain: Breedlove.

It's not weird to be snibbling on the elliptical trainer thingy, is it? People would just think I was having a really good workout, right?

Right?

Shit. Next time I'm plopping my fat jiggly ass in front of the VH1 television screen, wherever it happens to be. I don't care if that means I have to use the rower or if it means I have to watch thirty minutes of Paris Hilton: Misunderstood, Skank, or Just Really Shallow? because that must suck less.

Things I learned from watching The 300

• Women don't generally talk.
• Queens/wives/mothers don't get names.
• Shouting platitudes can apparently get people to do really desperate things.
• Dark skinned people are eeeeevil!
• Nose rings are eeeeeevil!
• Girls who sleep together are eeeeevil!
• Eeeeevil kings will wear girlie makeup!
• (and I can be totally jealous of whatever the hell was on his lips!)
• Dark skinned girls will sleep together.
• And be eeeeeevil!
• Any men who do not have sculpted (and perhaps, just perhaps, cgi'd) abs are pussy weakliartraitors.
• Hey also: blackmailing a woman into sex isn't rape!
• Ancient Greeks, especially Spartans, had really great dental plans.
• Persians, not so much.
• No, seriously, those Greeks? For the most part: really white, straight, clean teeth. With fillings.
• Any society that accepts imperfection: eeeeeevil!
• Facial piercings: eeeeeeevil!
• Also: when it comes to movies I might enjoy, a craptastic script rife with cliched dialogue, homophobia, xenophobia and misogyny cannot make up for visually stunning cinematography. Apparently I need some there there.

(For those who wondered: yes, there is only one woman who has any lines at all in this movie, and she doesn't get a name. Oh, wait, there's the adolescent "oracle" who gets to show some tit and whisper some ancient Greek, but she doesn't get a name either. Or, y'know, a personality. Just a tit and some cool cinematography.)

It's a little thing, but it's not.

I've started working out again. It's nice. It's a time when I can go absolutely zen brainless listening to music and reading crap magazines and still feel virtuous! It's win-win-win! Plus I've lost four pounds already! I haven't weighed myself since that four-pound weightloss weigh-in, just in case that was a water weight fluke. In fact, I'm focusing on that. Four pounds! Lost! Which means, actually, I can now fit into my Real People clothes as long as I don't breathe. That also means I only have twenty pounds to go before I'm at my weight last summer. Which wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't No You'll Never See Me In a Swimsuit Ever Fuck Off bad, so that's a plus. No pun intended.

Almost two years ago, I was on an exercise kick because I'd gained back some of the weight I'd lost for my wedding (ha! I was twenty-five pounds lighter then! ha!) and I saw this gym had a buy-three-years-membership-now-save-a-ton! deal. So I did. And, in fact, promptly stopped going because I got a job that was leaving me exhausted at 3:30. So, thumbs up, Kari! Well done!

Fortunately, I'd also bought the go-to-all-the-gyms-in-the-area pass, because the gym nearest me is in the corner of a dying mall. Well, the middle part of the mall is dying. Either end of the mall is anchored by a Target and a Home Depot, so no matter which end I went in, I was screwed.

Wait, that sounds dirty.

What I meant was, it was costing me more because I'd just take a little trip through Target and find a t-shirt! That was only $6.99! So I should just buy four! about once a week. Not good.

But then the walk from Target to the gym was through an echoy mall with empty storefronts. In fact, the only store still there is Claire's, and I can't figure out how they're selling enough $4.99 earring sets to stay open, but open they stay. It was depressing. The people at the gym were not very friendly. And I had a trainer that I had to avoid because part of my membership "deal" was that I got to see a trainer free five times. I went those five times before I stopped going, but Rick (Steve? Tom? Whatever his name was) would still call me. He even sent me a Christmas card. I did not make that up for comedic effect. Anyway, I didn't want to explain to him that I wasn't going to pay for more sessions with him because frankly, I was too tired to go to the gym at all and have him guilt me about going to the gym and what all, so I thought it best if I just never saw him again. It was a little like breaking up with a boy. In eighth grade.

Now I'm going to the shiny new gym that's not so near my house but is near a Trader Joe's. I justify replacing my Target shopping with the TJ shopping because hey! organic! Plus: this gym is much nicer. The people-watching is much prettier. In fact, I bring the prettiness average down quite a few notches as I sweat and grunt my way through my workout. I am not a pretty sweater. Meaning sweating person, not the knitted or woven garment. I get all red and flushed and my skin gets all patchy and teenage acne looking. But hell, it's not like I'm going there in order to look glam. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, I went today, and then went to TJ's and basically I feel that no matter what, if I do nothing else today (oh! and we cleaned almost our entire house this morning, like with mops and stuff! so there's that too!), I was still virtuous and so can consider this day a Win.

Rant rant rant rant rant rant rant rant rant

1. I hate it on TV or in the movies when people run a program that is clearly ridiculuous. Does it make funny noises when scrolling through a list, or a boop-boop-boop when it's running a program? Your computer is not a microwave, it doesn't beep as it counts down. And three-dimensional imaging, while fantastic, is not how businesses show the results of a search. CSI? I'm looking at you. Oh, and plus? One does not get one's DNA results by merely spinning a teeny test tube for forty-five minutes. That's not a one-day process.
2. You know what? Don't tell me teachers have it easy. Yeah, yeah, yeah, summers off is a great bonus. But I get shit pay, shittier respect (along the lines of if-you-could-do-anything-else-wouldn't-you-be-doing-it???) and the hours suuuuuuck. I can honestly say that I never worked this hard when I was making twice as much. Today I left the house at 6:45 and got home at 5 and have been working on lesson planning since then. And while this isn't every day, it also isn't unusual. Why do it, you ask? Well, I did want to slit my wrists at my previous job, so--less suicidal is a step up. Don't get me wrong--I love teaching, in the cheesy I've-found-my-calling way (and, apparently, in a need-to-use-hypens-a-lot way). But I also work really really hard to be a good teacher. Back up off that "you've got it easy" shit right now.
3. Hey, students! It's called a typo. Sorry its there, yeah yeah I suck, now figure it the fuck out and move on. It's really not hard to figure out that I meant "te" to be "the". Don't be such dumbasses.
4. Right now I'm finding it very hard to talk to, look at, or even think of pregnant women. Seriously, hate every single one of you. And yeah, this includes people that normally I love dearly. Don't take it personal, but also, don't tell me to just get over it. I am, and at my own pace, but if in the meantime I want to black out the teeth and draw beards on every pregnant woman in a magazine, I will and fuck you. Naomi Watts, this means you, you glowing sack of beautiful shit. I am also contemplating running up to pregnant women on the street and tacking signs on their back that read, "Ask me about my hemorrhoids!" So I don't want to hear how happy-go-yay you are about your full and lustrious hair, how the pregnancy juice flowing through your veins just makes the very oxygen you breathe smell better, nor will I be in the least sympathetic about how rough it is to have to pee all the time. Suck it up and find someone else to be your Pregnant Goddess Sounding Board.
5. If I work with you but take some time off for some horrid personal shit and so miss a meeting we're supposed to have, that is really really not a good time to rant about my communication style to everyone else. Yes, I-dress-in-clothes-from-the-eighties-and-not-in-a-good-way, I'm talking to you, oh you who has the hair down your back and still curls your bangs. If I'm not there to either receive constructive criticism nor to defend myself, why the fuck are you ranting about me by name unless it's because you're a chicken shit cowardly cunt? PS: the ghost of Princess Di called. She wants her blazers with the puffy sleeves and skirts with the pleated waists back.
6. Oh, and 2007? You just took the father of a really dear friend of mine. He didn't smoke, he didn't play with radioactive material, whence his sudden cancer? Fuck you 2007. Just fuck you sideways.

Can someone wake me up when it's May? Because sometimes it hurts too much for it to still only be today.

Would you like some tea with that awkward?

I have the best friends in the world. I've been getting the sweetest cards that invariably make me cry but also make me feel like eventually, one day, maybe even one day soon, I'll be less of a hermit and it won't hurt too much. I still hesitate when I get an envelope with handwriting on it, I kind of put off reading it until I'm okay with the idea that I'll want to cry and it'll take me back to that place but I eventually do read it because I'm so incredibly, deeply touched.

Plus, cards are way way better than phone calls. Such as my 90-some-odd year old grandparents, my oh-so-Minnesota-Scandinavian-Uff-da grandparents. The phone conversation went like this (note: you'll have to insert the northern-Minnesota accent yourself):

Me: "Hi Grampa!"

Grampa: "Oohhhh, Hi Kari, it's your Grampa here... your grandmother is getting on the other line... so..."

Me: "... well, hi Grampa... um... how're you?"

Grampa: "I'm fiiiine... you know... your grandmother is getting on the other line..."

Grandma: "Hiiiii, Kari!"

Me (loudly):"Hi, Grandma, how're you?"

Grandma: "Ooooh, you know... truckin' along... "

Grampa: "We're.... we're calling because.... your mother told us that you... that you... that some rough things happened and... we've sure been thinking about you, you know, a lot...."

Me (thinking, shoot me now, can this get more awkward? and that I suck and will burn in hell for thinking such terrible things about my grandparents being super sweet? and yet, the awkward? is awkward and awful?) "Yeah, it's been rough...."

Grampa: "...and we're sure sorry and sad."

Me: "That's very kind, thanks. I... yeah, it's been a rough week, but thanks."

Grampa: "So, how's the weather down there?"

Me: "Fine, it's 60 and sunny today. How about you?"

Grampa: "Oh, it's been terrible, the worst storm I can remember! We've been snowed in for days now."

Grandma: "We're surviving off the food we have in the house!"

Me: "That sounds awful!"

Grampa: "Oh, you know. Are you planning a trip up to visit us?"

Me: "Um. Well, our plans for the year have been somewhat abruptly changed, so we'll try to figure something out..."

Grampa: "That'd be great, we'd sure look forward to it. We're thinking of you."

Grandma: "Be a good girl, now!"

Click.

Me: "Okay, um, bye?"



I don't think they make a card for that conversation.

One hour changes a lot.

In Chicago, if you drive for an hour... chances are, you're still in Chicago. Max, you're in Skokie or maybe Naperville (if you were driving at 3 a.m.), but still the Greater Chicagoland Area. Which was a problem in the "getting away" department, because it was a major chore to get anywhere that even vaguely resembled "away". Maybe that's why we got out of the habit.

Because sweet jesus, it's easy to get to a great place, just an hour away. Why did it take us FOUR YEARS to even try it?

Here: Grey. Probabily misty rainy--that sort of unsatisfying rain that is cold and clingy and wet but doesn't have any sort of cozy-inducing rat-a-tat-tat against the windows. Just a numbness-inducing blah.

There: Blue skies, and feet--as in plural of foot, feet--of snow.

That's the peak of Mt. Hood that you can see. That's the mountain I can just barely see (if I ignore the apartment complex blocking it) from my bathroom window. That I see looking east along the Columbia River on my way to work. It's flipping gorgeous.

There's more over on Flickr, if you want to see pictures. I'm relaxed and ready to get back to grading... although I did just heave a really big sigh upon typing that. Maybe a better way to put that is that grading doesn't seem like it's pulling the capillaries out of my skin one at a time anymore. I'm ready for this next week.

Thank you Andrew for taking this trip for me.

And, as a final act--the cherry on top, if you will...

My day:

Underwear up ass: four hours of class time, where picking ass is discouraged. Two cumulative hours of driving time, where space is too confined for ass picking. Finally reach around to pick ass in Fred Meyer Parking Lot (through a denim skirt, which is no mean feat, let me tell you), only to turn around and find a two-year-old watching me. With her finger up her nose.

Exposed: Fly down. Three. Separate. Times. Each time, I realize it while standing in front of twenty or more teenagers. Fucking denim skirt.

Ass: so big it knocked over loud items twice in class without my intention (just to clear that up, because sometimes my ass knocks over loud items with my intentions) in front of teenage audience (who are oh-so-forgiving, haven't you noticed?). Once, a metal bucket full of writing utensils. Once, a large stack of paper. Um, very large. And now, no longer stacked.

My karma: really, I need to be humiliated on top of everything? In front of other people? This week, it hasn't slapped silly enough to know I'm its bitch? Seriously?

Blindsided.

I'm on autopilot right now at school, going through the motions. I figure if I go through the motions long enough, they'll be interesting again soon. Or eventually, one of the two.

Except today, as I'm going through the lessons in the book in the most old-fashioned of ways (lecture lecture lecture!) I hadn't read ahead because I'm basically working on a minute by minute basis right now. And then I get to the meat of today's statistics lessons.

We're teaching sampling methods and margin of error. By estimating the average age of women when they first give birth.

Awesome.

If you're interested, by the by, a 95% confidence interval puts the average age between 20.38 and 24.22 years of age. I'm not even an outlier.

Silver Lining, part 3

We can put off buying that 2nd car. Yes, we can, Andrew. No, really. I know. But just think! That's at least a year of no car payments or extra insurance payments!

Silver Lining, part 2

I don't have to hear, "Oh, your mom must be so excited--she's wanted grandchildren for so long, and now she's going to have two in one year!" again. Because that was always awesome to hear.

Silver Lining

I haven't gone skiing in Oregon yet, since we moved here four years ago. We meant to go this winter, but... well, there were those two and a half months where it would have been a bad idea.

We're going to go skiing this weekend.

Yay, skiing!

Making a mix-tape.

At a friend's "Hey, We're Having a Baby!" dance party recently (one where I didn't do much dancing, because I was worried about my pregnancy--hah!), they were given a card. When you opened it, it started playing Salt-n-Pepa, beginning with the chorus, "OOoo, Baby Baby! Ba-ba-ba-Baby!" Funny.

Now Hallmark does have a new line for miscarriage, but it's a little cheesy. Other online stories have miscarriage sympathy cards, but really I'm not much of an butterfly-kisses, angel-wings, rainbow-bridge, name-your-embryo-and-call-it-your-guardian-angel type of person.*

But if they had music, music that plays when you open the card, I might be interested. So Andrew and I were debating what songs they should play.

His contribution: "So You Had a Bad Day."
Mine: "There's that Janis Joplin's song that goes, (singing) 'Bye... bye... bye, baby bye bye!'"
His suggestion: "Wasn't there a Justin Timberlake song that went, baby ain't no lie, baby bye bye bye?" **
Me again: "How about Sunday Bloody Sunday?"
Him: "...."
Me: "Hmm. Too far?"

Well, we'll keep working on it. We'll make millions.

(In other news--physically, muuuuch less pain. Emotionally, well, today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow will hopefully be better still. And I took a shower today! Is this where I say "baby steps"?***)

*Not that I begrudge anyone their coping mechanism. If that gives you comfort and that's how you get through this, y'know, go for it. Me? I make bad jokes and get angry at inappropriate times.

**By the way, he totally did some dance steps with that one. He'll deny it, but I was there.

**See? Baaaaaad jokes.

If you want to know.

I am doing fine.

I am horrible.

I am calm, almost serene.

I’m a wreck.

This happens to women all the time.

This happened to me.

Two days ago, I was pregnant. I woke up Thursday, and I was pregnant. And I forgot my prenatal vitamin. Isn’t that weird? I mean, it’s merely coincidence, and if a movie had that as a plot device, it’d be clunky and cheesy and touchy-feely beyond belief. But I did and I keep remembering that, and just thinking, “How weird.”

Two days ago, 2007 was a good year, one that would totally make up for the shitty year 2006 was from beginning to end. Two days ago, I was debating whether I would be okay to go to my cousin’s wedding. In October. Because, you see, that would have been about six weeks after my baby was born. We’d seen the heartbeat—heard the heartbeat!—twice! We’d seen and heard the thrum of a wee little hummingbird’s heartbeat. A hard-won and so-wanted pregnancy with a wee little hummingbird. And then it was Thursday.

By four o’clock—so, like, a day and a half ago—I started feeling unwell. I’m not sure I can go back to that grocery store ever again, because I was pushing my cart down the cereal aisle and just started wondering how quickly I could finish and leave and get back home because I needed to stop noticing how crappy I felt.

By five o’clock, I’d already called Andrew begging him to come home. I couldn’t lie down, curl up, stretch out, into a position that was bearable. I hurt. I wanted to vomit. My back hurt, and it felt like I was being ripped from hip to hip, jaggedly, repeatedly.

And I begged. I begged my body, I begged my hummingbird, I begged my uterus. I begged until the words became a rhythm, a four-count, meaningless except for the up and down and rumble of my voice. Please be okay. Please don’t leave me. Please be okay. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t do this. Please. Please. Please.

I begged so I could stop crying.

Andrew came home and held me and he was okay and he wasn’t and all he wanted to do is help. He helped me arrange for a substitute to come in Friday, he let work know he’d be “working from home” on Friday, and he stroked my hair and stroked my hip and tucked me in. And we were scared together.

And that was Thursday.

The answering service for my doctor said that if I wasn’t bleeding profusely, I didn’t need to go to the ER. And I wasn’t. Despite all this pain, there was so little blood. It felt like I should be bleeding a Mississippi River but there was only hurt. So I waited until my doctor’s office opened the next morning, at 8:30. By 8:31, I had told the doctor I could be there in ten minutes, and they said to do so. By 8:32, A had his keys and was standing by the front door, ready to help me to the car.

By 8:45, we could see my empty empty black hole uterus in black and white fuzz.

And suddenly 2007 needs its ass kicked in a dark alley by some very large bouncers with crowbars and tasers.

There was more to yesterday. I mean, I’d been telling people because we’d heard a heartbeat and that’s supposed to be the safety mark. Everybody said. But I couldn’t tell this the same way. The words wouldn’t come. I have great friends, but I needed to not think about it, be blank, be numb, be nothing, be empty for a while. So I posted to one blog, and I called one friend, and just said that I wanted the others to know but I couldn’t tell them all one by one.

At about 8:00, I ran my hand along the back of my sweatpants and felt the waistband string, and realized that I’d put my pants on backwards. When I left the doctor’s office. And I hadn’t noticed until now. And that it had been almost twelve hours.

And I talked to my mom.

And that was yesterday.

Today?

Today is Saturday.

I’m fine as long as I only wonder what am I going to do today? (Take a shower, watch a DVD, maybe change out of what I was wearing on Thursday.) I can maybe wonder about what I’m going to do tomorrow.

I am horrible and broken when I think of how much I’d already planned this year in little packages without even meaning to and how none of it will be. A spring growing into maternity clothes. A summer break of slowly and lovingly furnishing a fairy room. A Christmas with a baby. Poof.

I am calm, almost serene as I reinforce the mantra that there is nothing I or anyone could have done and it’s not a judgment on me and it doesn’t mean I won’t get pregnant later and research says and experience shows and blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda insert cliché here.

I’m a wreck as I look at the onesies my mom sent for my birthday, tucked under the blanket, the one I’d used as a baby, the faded pink blanket with the satin edging that still shows all of Mom’s repairs, that I can’t bear to look at and can’t bear to pack away.

This happens to women all the time.

This happened to me.

Pardon the absence.

2006 kinda sucked ass. 2007 has a lot to make up for. And it's doing a shit-ass lousy job of it.

I'll write more later.

Links on a Lazy Sunday

Reason to be irate: a doctor has the right to refuse to treat your child because you have a tattoo or a facial piercing. Although, I have to wonder--was that the only doctor in town? Also: asshat.

Reason to be concerned: Britney has lost her damn mind.

Reason to giggle: my sister gets sent the greatest shit. I also adore the friend who sent it, because she and Lee came to stay with me once and it made me feel super uber cool.

Reason to hate flying less: If instead of SkyMall, they had this.

Reason to be excited: In about four months, I can buy this and this and this, only about 15 minutes away. And tax-free. My dream of an organized basement, an adorable fairy-room, and a new kitchen are within my grasp.

That is all.

Maybe not the best choice.

Um. So. Pan's Labyrinth.

A wanted to give it a C. I definitely liked it better than him, but I did spend a good 15 minutes total out of the film hiding behind my fingers because dear sweet God, the gore! The gore! At one point, I even had to plug my ears because the sound is just so... visceral. For those who don't know the plot, in a nutshell: it's the end days of World War II, we're in Spain where Franco's fascist army is defeating the Communist Resistance, and in a wooded outpost, a small girl deals with the violence around her by retreating to a fantasy world where she may or may not be the reincarnation of the long-lost princess. Fauns, fairies, magical trials, and scary beasties (including, but not limited to, a barfing toad and the ever-present Dude With Eyeballs In His Palms) abound. The special effects were really cool, and I really liked the imaginary-land part, but it's crossed with bone-smashing, skin-searing violence, both physical and emotional, that was really hard to take. Which, I suppose, is the whole point.

I think, however, the movie is best summed up (at least for us) as we walked out the doors to the parking lot.

"For the next few months, hon..." I said, as A held the door open for me, "how bout we don't go see any movies ever that involve a hugely pregnant woman's grisly and bloody death during childbirth?"

So, I might as well say it...

None of that is-that-a-line-or-isn't-it for us. If it can be done by a computer, that's what we'll do. Heh. In the middle of January, I sent A off to buy a pregnancy test. He comes back with these. "It's digital!" he said, in the same voice as, "Why on earth would anyone use anything different?"

He wanted to hold it for me while I peed. After laughing until I cried, I firmly said no and shut the door. After negotiating the best way to get the required five-second pee stream on it (imagining pee streams that flow wild through the mountains), I snapped the cap back on and put it on the counter to wait five minutes.

It was negative.

That made for a really really long day. I hadn't admitted it to myself, but I thought sure that this was the one that had taken. Of course, I felt the same way the previous month, so what do I know? My baby sister was pregnant. Why couldn't I be? Christmas had kind of sucked, my brithday was coming up soon and good God was I not looking forward to it at all. And worst of all, I was feeling sorry for myself and I really hated it.

That night I went to bed in a manner that could only be described as "dejectedly". I glanced down as I climbed into bed and then looked at A. "And I was so certain my boobs were bigger this month too!"

The next morning, I woke up after A had slipped out and gone into work. It was a Sunday, and he was getting some book-writing done. I lounged in bed, aimless in my plans for the day. I decided 10:30 was late enough, and I got up. And I thought, well, the test pack comes with two. Might as well.

Here I am, alone in the house for the first time in forever, and I have this pee stick that says... that says... holy shit! I don't even have to wonder is-that-a-line-or-isn't-it! Could it be wrong? It's digital! Digital things aren't wrong! Right? There's definitely no "not" there, just the word that says... that says... Holy. Crap. Really?

Lots of phone madness ensued as I called A so he could come home, I tried to call my parents who weren't home (what the hell? how could they be out on a Sunday morning/afternoon when I had news to tell them???) and I called Emily who--if possible, and maybe it isn't--squealed more than me and at a higher frequency and pitch.

So that was January 14th and now it's February 10th and I'm officially 8 weeks and 4 days pregnant and yes I know it's still the first trimester but we've seen the heart beat (which wasn't so much blood going through a heart as free-flowing liquid swishing around a shell) and measured something shaped like a lima bean and starting the 20th I get to go to a doctor covered by insurance just like regular people.

Yippee! and, Holy Crap! and Jesus Christ!

Not in bed yet. Why? I am immobilized by the need to pass out.

By the way: my new favorite rant.

Really, really going to bed now.

I made it.

Grades are in. LIterally, eight hours and fifteen minutes before last chance.

I'd been putting off grading them for a week. I got a big push done at the front--well, Emily got a big push done for me at the front GOD BLESS HER TO THE HEAVENS AND MAY LITTLE TINY ANGELS ALWAYS THROW VIRTUAL ROSE PETALS AT HER FEET but I'd been putting off grading the free response questions for days and days and days.

I was gonna do it this afternoon, I really really really was, I was gonna sit down and take care of business! RIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. I was totally totally going to do it.

And then I remembered I had a knowledge bowl meet. K-bowl goes from 1:30 to, oh, 6:30. So I'm home--if I'm home quickly and no students dawdle (high school students? dawdle???) by 7.

And THEN I could start grading.

I'm done now. I'm going to go pass out. Twice. I'm going to pass out, wake up, and pass out again. That's how badly I need to pass out.

American Idol as a math problem.

"She's going to get on."

"That was just a few notes!"

"I know, but you can tell."

"Ehhh... she's not that good."

"Yeah, but she's good enough for the size of her tits. She'll get on. It's talent times tits. As long as one is big and the other isn't zero, they'll get on."

An update in the life of a teacher

This: So my school district is opening a 4th high school, and they're populating it by cannibalizing the other schools. There's a bunch of things about this high school that I philosophically don't agree with (they want to force every student to take at least one AP course...!) plus it's waaay on the other side of town and so would likely change my dreamy fifteen minute commute into a forty minute one, but mostly I'm just so wicked happy with my school right now that I don't want to change. But they're supposed to announce the moved personnel today. They haven't yet (shocked! I am SHOCKED!), but still. It'll be nice to get that uncertainty out of the way. Plus, the teacher we call Shoop Shoop for his parachute pants is probably going to the new school so that'll be good.

That: A and I went out on a date Friday night--to my high school's varsity basketball game against the cross-town rivals. It was a hoot. It was such a hoot, it may be the reason the word hoot was invented. A, of course, was his high school basketball team's MVP for two years in a row, so this is his world and he got right into it, shouting things like, "Challenge him!" and "Follow your shot!" and "Run the weak side triangle! Snatch the shore account!" (I may have made up that last one...) Two of the starters were sophomores of mine, so I was shouting by name because of course they could hear me up in the stands...! It was so much fun that we're probably going again tomorrow.

The other: ...and while we were at the basketball game, the school band was awesome. I looked over and noticed one of my favorite students--Lee will remember him from one of her visits because he's one of her favorites too, all arty and earnest and vegan and curly-haired and be-spectacled and nerdy but in a cool way, like he totally listened to They Might Be Giants--I noticed that he plays in the band. And you'll never guess what he plays.

The cowbell.

Things I did today instead of the work I needed to do

1. Got a mani/pedi
2. Went grocery shopping
3. Went shopping for a baby shower. That's in March.
4. Made a Chicken Apricot Tangine for dinner (it'll be done in an hour, yum!)
5. Spent at least three hours surfing teh internets
6. Reorganized the linen closet
7. Rearranged the living room. Um, surprise, hon! I rearranged the living room!

Reasons my school needs to stop calling a snow day

1. It's crazy easy to drive right now. I mean, seriously, people.

2. Andrew has a cold that he keeps telling me about. Or maybe he's just "getting" sick. But he keeps telling me about it. And clearing his throat loudly and mucously. And by the way, he's getting sick?

3. I'm running out of free-day crap to do, and soon I'm going to start doing things like clean the basement.

4. Have I mentioned that Andrew's got cold? Because he has. Once or twice.

I love taking pictures

And I love what I'm taking pictures of.

This is what a lazy snow day is all about.

Remember when I said...

that Portlanders don't know how to drive on snow?

Here's proof.

PS: make sure your volume's on when you watch that!