Dangers of the Internet

Feeling a little soreness in the throat. Planned all day to get to be early. You know, fight off the cold before it starts. The road is paved, they say. But with wireless access from my bed, it's just so easy to stay up late Googling ABC's new bachelor, Dr. Travis. If I get really sick, I'm heading to his ER.

Book Club: The Movie

My book club often jokes about the scenes that will make it into Book Club: The Movie, and I happen to think that this one should open the film.

Four women and a balding man sit six to seven feet away from a laptop staring at a black and white wheel. "Does anyone see a color?' one of them whispers. "I do, but I don't want to say," another responds. "I got nothing," murmurs a third.

Eventually, they all share the colors that they see. Yellow for most. Yellow with a hint of green for one. You realize through the conversation that they have been trying to find out the color of their auras. Having failed at such, (because how could they all have the same aura?), they work the process backwards, reading the aura descriptions to determine which fits each person best.

"Oh god," one states, "What are The Tans? Imagine having a tan aura." She's right. Some poor bastards have tan auras, and even worse, there's a whole category of them known as the Logical Tans.

"Shit," one (who might be writing this blog) states, "I'm totally a Logical Tan!" Later, they'll joke about what a great band name the Logical Tans would make and how Red Overlay would be their lead singer.

I can picture the shots in my mind. A deck of tarot cards makes an appearance and there's a bottle of wine in every scene. All of this interspersed with brilliant revelations about books, authors, and the meaning of life. Sure, there are other details to figure out, but those things aside, I'm thinking at least honorable mention at Cannes or Sundance. Aren't you?

Serendipity

It's not uncommon for my book club to have to change our meeting date two or three times over e-mail. I initiated the change this time around. What is uncommon, though, is that I accidentally sent the message to a girlfriend from college that I haven't been in touch with for over a year. She makes me laugh more than anyone I know, and not only did this auspicious mistake (one that left approximately fourteen replies in her inbox) give us a chance to catch up, but it also turned out to be just what I needed. I shared with T the fact that I had recently been dumped and am wondering why the hell I bother with men. And although I don't technically have permission to share her response, I think that such brilliance must be spread. Here's a small gem of her broad wisdom:

the only GUYS worth anything are the ones with very strong morals. the occurrence of finding men with morals is increasingly rare and is almost always paired with major major mother issues. the "keepers" (BETWIXT AGES 90 and 112 in the u.s.) are the ones that have 3 or more sisters. of course, people are having fewer children, so i mentally weep pretty much daily for the next generation of women.

All single women are doomed, I am sure. But the prospect of navigating the world as a single woman is not quite so daunting as long as I have girlfriends like this. When I am paying attention, or NOT paying attention, as was the case this time, the right people with all of the right words come along at the right time. And when I have people in my life so willing to give, it is hard to spend another moment feeling sorry for my losses.

Some days

. . . I have to ask myself: How could any combination of food possibly create such obnoxious gas?

I'd like to say that I'm talking about my seventh graders. Yep. I'd like to say that.

Love in Syndication

I am watching an old episode of Mad About You right now. One where Jamie and Paul are fighting about her kissing another man and how that's really a symptom of the bigger problem between them -- that it's just not working. They simply aren't happy. The relationship has become too difficult and they don't know how to do better.

It's good dialogue, but oh man, it's hitting me right in the kisser right now. Timely, I guess. Recently ended my own relationship and it has me rather contemplative. Am wondering if I was meant to see this particular episode at this particular time to realize that some things just aren't meant to be. They are simply too hard.

What I really want to believe, though, is that it's all supposed to be hard to some degree and risks of the heart are the ones most worth taking.

Paul and Jamie figure that out. Not without more battles, though. I remember seeing the series finale. They split for a while, over something else, I think, and then end up growing old together after a tear-jerking reunion. Seriously. A snot-wiping, can't-catch-your-breath reunion.

Don't know if there will be any more romantic episodes starring my most recent leading man, but at least I've been reminded that all of life's lessons are to be learned from TV.

I Hate Sunday

And it's not really Sunday's fault. For some reason, here is what I have saved for today:

a) Paint the rest of the kitchen after picking up more paint from store,
b) read 100 pages of education book and plan activity for diversity class,
c) make new seating charts as new quarter starts tomorrow,
d) figure out how to create a chat room so students can write to one another about novels they are reading,
e) write a proposal for funding to attend research conference next month,
f) book flight for that same conference,
g) go to yoga class,
h) pick up groceries, and
i) relax before the week starts all over again.

Sigh.

Ready. Set. Go.

The Pen

The other day one of my seventh graders asked me why teachers are so weird about their pens. That was an easy question to answer: I have a lot of papers to grade and I like to have just the right pen to make it easier. One that glides and lets me loop with abandon. Plus, my students steal ten to twenty of my lesser writing utensils daily, so there is always one really good pen that I am very particular about keeping track of.

Wanting to write something down at my language arts meeting today, I realized that my newly purchased perfect pen was missing. Immediately, I noticed that the teacher next to me was using it. "Um. You have my pen, I think."

I said, I think, but I knew it was mine, could identify it in a line up if necessary. "Oh, this was clipped to my stuff," she replied. "This one must be yours."

Oh no she didn't.

Sure, the pen she offered up was exactly the same color and model as my own, easy to mistake to the undiscerning eye, but if she had looked closely, not only would she notice that her pen, right next to her highlighter, was positioned such that I couldn't have placed it there. Plus, she would see that the pen she was holding had far more ink in it and was clearly owned by someone who had purchased it only two days before. Moreover, she would see that the pen she offered to me as my own (although it clearly was not) was bespeckled with glitter -- AND of the two of us, I am certain to lead the more glitter-free lifestyle. How hard was this to see?

"Oh. . .um. . .thanks," I answered and took the WRONG pen. Then, I spent the last ten minutes of our meeting contemplating how idiotic I would sound backtracking. "Yeah. So. Remember the pen mix up. It turns out that I really am sure that that one is mine. You see, I just bought it and it has a lot more ink than this one. And you see this silver stuff here . . . mine didn't have that. So. You see. Honest mistake. No harm done."

Except that the harm done would be that I sounded like a TOTAL freak obsessed about a mere pen. Which, thank you, I am. Instead, I said nothing and doodled flowers with the second-rate pen just to see if it worked.

Hair Today. . .

Had a meeting yesterday with a case coordinator in our building, and while I feel badly about it, I gawked at her hair like a straight man to breasts the entire time we spoke. The thing is, she's lost a lot of hair in exactly the spot I fear my own is thinning. And since that meeting, I've been examining my hairline in the mirror every chance I get, considering whether or not it looks the same as a year ago or the year before that. Surely, I'm over-reacting and seeing things that aren't there (which would be, I guess, exactly the problem), but just in case I'm right and everyone has been talking behind my back about how I'm going bald, I thought it best to cut the rumors off at the pass and post my insecurities right here and now. When it's time for Rogaine, however, do speak up. I will not be offended.

I Do Mean To Make Light Of It All

My best friend is sick. Has been for a while now, and by the looks of things, she will be for a while longer. It is what it is, and no one could handle it better. But I worry, and even more, I'm angry. Angry that she doesn't feel better, angry that little seems to be helping, and angry that I can't fix it. But, I've been trying to grow into her illness as she has, and it seems that humor is the best way I know how.

We have a standing Tuesday night walking date at the gym, and last night, she had to cancel. "I can't make it tonight," she said. "I have a sigmoidoscopy tomorrow and I have to give myself an enema."

What I was thinking was, "Could anything fucking suck more?" What I said was, "Don't worry about it. If I had a nickel for every time someone has had to cancel plans to perform a self enema . . . well, just give me a call tomorrow and let me know how it all comes out."

Maybe hearing her laugh is really about making me feel better, but I've decided that's okay. It's what I have to give.

Why Internet Dating Will Never Work For Me

I made a small confession of affection last night. I did it the way we do in the digital age: e-mail. All day, I've been awaiting the response. In my mind, it seemed such a large gesture. In his inbox, it's just another message that, if time, may get answered. As it is well into the evening and my inbox is empty, I think I'll go the face-to-face, answer-me-now-or-leave-me-forever route next time.

Home Is Where Someone Else's Stuff Is

Lately, when no one is around, I've been stopping to stare at each room in my house from the doorway. More and more, I feel this is home. Much of that feeling I attribute to the presence of Kirsten's furniture. She's making a life transition, and that means I get to house her wares until she's settled again. I joke to her that I'm never giving certain items back, like the rug and that green chair, but eventually, I know I'll have to. Until then, I'll capture moments from the doorway when the light hits everything just right and think, this is mine.

"Maybe it's ringworm,"

Kirsten said after I pointed out a red dot on either side of my neck just above the collarbone.

"Ringworm!" I dashed to the bathroom mirror to take another look. "How would I get ringworm?"

"You can get it from stress," she replied.

Stress. God dammit. If those seventh graders have given me ringworm, I'm gonna be really ticked off.

"Let me look again." Kirsten took a better look under the light above the sink.

"That's not ringworm," she stated indignantly, as if I had been the one to suggest it in the first place. "That's from your jacket or something."

Of course it wasn't ringworm, I never said it was, but it did make for some nice drama on an otherwise quiet evening.

Reso-fucking-lution

Bdoc sent this guest entry a week ago, and I was reminded of it last night at the gym when I had to park a mile from the building because of the resolutioners. When will they just give up on getting fit? At any rate, here's another rambling from my potty-mouthed sister. Earmuffs, please.

That’s what I call them. I bet jdoc didn’t contemplate that she would have an X-rated blog site once I became a guest blogger. Nevertheless, that’s what I call them. For those of you who can’t read through the blaring sailor talk, you might refer to them as Resolutions; as in New Year’s. Or maybe you could refer to them, as I do, as RFLs.

I have to admit that I don’t have even one. Not. One. I will forever and consistently have the goal of losing weight, getting in better shape, getting on the cover of Self magazine (or at least LOOK like I could be on the cover). Those goals, for me, don’t end at January 31 at 12 midnight sharp like every other short-timer at the gym who is taking up precious time and space on the elliptical runner from those of us that are loyal and there YEAR ROUND!!!

So I’m not even counting those in this list.

Additionally, I don’t need to work on keeping in contact with my sisters more often. Last year jdoc and I decided that we were going to be better about keeping in touch. I think we accomplished that. After all, she can’t even answer the phone because of all the minutes we’ve used. I figure, as long as jdoc and I keep driving our cars, we will always be in touch. And cdoc calls every 5 minutes when she’s not working so I know I’ll never lose touch with her.

I guess my RFL for this year is to be able to think of a RFL by next year. To recap, here’s my list of RFLs:

1. Find a RFL for next year.
2. Buy a computer so I can stop plaguing jdoc’s fans with the random ramblings of her sister….

A Body of Knowledge

It should have taken twenty minutes, but an hour and five soaked towels later, pal and colleague, Greg, had the new parts correctly attached to the toilet tank. Maybe it was the wine from dinner, the trace of caffeine in our decaf coffees, or the fact that we work with 7th graders, but I'm sure the job took longer because of the giggle fits every time we read "ballcock," "lock nut," or "nipple" in the written directions for the job. We also enjoyed shouting out these words to Greg's wife, Paula, in the other room each time she asked what we were laughing about. I thought that I needed help with these home project because of my general lack of skill and ability in all things home-related, but now I realize it just wouldn't be as fun giggling in the bathroom alone.

Uninvited House Guest

From my January horoscope:

Neptune will remain at the very bottom of your chart, positioned in your fourth house of home and property, for many years to come, but will now become one of the fixed planets in the star pattern I discussed above. Neptune is associated with water and problems associated with floods, water contamination, and mold, to name a few examples.

Let's see. In September, the sink backed up and I had to call a drain specialist. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that the shower was leaking into the basement through the tile, and just last week that disaster was solved. Two days ago, the flapper in the toilet decided to start leaking, and when I tried to remedy that problem, I couldn't get the fill valve to catch and the tank just kept filling and filling and filling. After shutting off the water and tinkering with the parts a bit, the flapper now works if you hold it down for twenty seconds and the tank fills to the waterline. But only, I am sure, until I replace the corroded and rusty parts. And after that? Only Neptune knows, but I'm sure he'll have the pipes bursting in no time.

How I know my brain is still on break even though the rest of me had to go back to work

"I have a hankering for Indian food. Do you know of a good place?" Kirsten asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "I do. It's in St. Paul and called Taste of Thailand."

Pause.

"Oh. But is that Indian?" This follow-up was kind and undeserved.

"Actually. No. It's not." What does one say after that?

This conversation was yesterday, but today in front of the seventh graders, my reasoning skills had not much improved. Luckily, their grogginess rivaled my own and we got along just fine.

Waxing Philosophical (And I'm Not Even Drunk)

We cannot help but hope to become better. And to me, the state of becoming seems like a nice place to be. No final resolutions, just ever and always becoming. I'm gonna unpack my things, settle in, and call it home. For whatever purpose and to whatever end, becoming is the Thing. With a capital T.