Bad May, Part Dux: First, The Background

Daughter number three (JG) is a spit-fire. She is graciously particular - most of the time (at age two, for example, she would say, "That's not my favorite" when any mushy or otherwise non-pretty looking food was placed on her plate, and then would refused to eat.) She has a stubborn streak and is more tenacious than anyone I know or have ever met. For example, when she turned four, I once sent her to bed without supper because she would not eat what was served her. By lunchtime the next day, she was content to just keep on not eating because nothing I served for breakfast or lunch was "her favorite." She could have kept right on fasting through dinner and breakfast the next day, too, but by dinnertime and no eating - none - for 24 hours, I figured out what was her favorite and served that. And one of her more endearing qualities is that she is a dawdler and a silly-heart (yes, you Uncle Buck fans - I borrowed that phrasing). JG is an extroverted, hands-on kind of girl that enjoys making people laugh. Clearly (except for being and extrovert), this apple of my eye didn't fall far from the tree.

So I wasn't surprised that when we moved from Oregon to Austin last December that this major move might be met with some resistance. Not only would JG's new school require that she would have to wake up, eat, and be out the door by 7:35 (thank God we live right behind the school), but she would also have to attend school all day long rather than the half day required at her previous school. Don't misunderstand - JG is not the kind of kid needs to take a nap half way through the day. On the contrary, I had to stop making her take a nap at age 3 so that we could all get to sleep before midnight/1 AM. No joke. The problem was that more "sitting" would be required of her than ever before.

And, a sitting all day in a chair kind of girl JG is not.

It was no surprise to me that JG complained of hating school every day for the first month. Where she played all day and would easily, charmingly, and wordlessly command attention at her other school, she was now being forced to sit and take daily quizzes on letter sound recognition (teacher says a sound, and students write the upper and lower case letter; teacher says a letter, and students say all of the possible sounds that letter makes). Also, she now had to do homework - worksheets and flashcards that took us probably 20-30 minutes to complete.

By week two, the teacher was calling us in for a meeting. I knew it couldn't be a good sign when the teacher asked me, more than once in this 30 minute conversation, whether or not JG was in pre-school or kindergarten at her last school. By the end of the conversation, the teacher pretty much spelled out to us that she would do her darnedest to bring JG up to speed (all of her students were reading by this time, and JG was a whole semester behind), but the reality of the matter was that enough progress may not be made by the end of the year.

As the semester progressed, so did JG. Although resistant at times because she had to skip so much free choice time in order to be hard line tutored in her ABCs, JG seemed to be getting the hang of things. In fact, because she was labeled by the school as "at risk," she had to meet with the reading specialist four days a week - all because she was not a fluent reader as a kindergartner. Also, we met with the teacher periodically in order to be kept up to speed. But by spring break, I began to notice that JG had had enough; every day, she complained that school was boring. Sure, she liked PE and lunch, but the rest of it was "boring teaching stuff."

I began to notice, too, that the teacher was growing less and less patient with my little girl's quirky behavior. At first, JG confessed that she had a time out here and there. Then it was daily. Then the notes started coming home, followed by phone calls from the teacher. The biggest offense? JG was talking. Talking in line, talking in the hallway, talking during circle time. The girl likes to talk, what can I say? (And if you noticed the length of any of my entries lately, you can clearly see where she gets this trait.)

Side note: she is in kindergarten. Kin-der-garten! Is it really necessary to chain a kid to her desk and slap the proverbial duct tape on her mouth before she is promoted to one of the grades that are numbered?! (Of course I am speaking metaphorically here.) Although there was that one little time that JG kissed a boy (see what I'm dealing with here!). I took a hard line on that one: "no kissing until you are 25!" JG just giggled at me, but agreed to never do that again at school.

In any event, I dropped by the school more and more (visited JG at lunch, went to special events such as "Water Day," etc.) in order to witness the teacher's interaction with JG for myself. Frankly, what I saw was a fantastic teacher that just didn't have any patience with my daughter. If JG had a question, she was answered with slight annoyance. If my daughter tapped on her teacher to get her attention, she was simply ignored. I even had the opportunity to witness a scolding, and the teacher reponded with exhasperation to my daughter (nevertheless, I did not intervene). Trust me - I live with this daughter 24/7, so I sympathize with this exasperation. Still, I was begining to wonder if some of the behavior issues in class stemmed from a personality conflict with the teacher rather than actual behavioral problems.

Then came "The Meeting." And you'll just have to read more about that later.

Bad May, Part I

Warning: What you are about to read is a ridiculously wordy version of just one of the obstacles I faced in May. It is, at moments, kind of a disgusting tale. You've been warned: proceed at your own risk.

It was 2:50 on the Wednesday before school let out last month. I’m not sure what compelled me to walk to the end of the driveway that day to watch my three older girls walk the last block from school. We live directly behind the school, for goodness sakes – if I climbed on top of my house, I could easily watch them walk out the back door of the school right to the front door of our house.

While I was waiting there at the end of our driveway, I thought I heard a shout or someone yelling. It was like the internal nagging voice that I sometimes hear way back in my subconscious, so of course I ignored it the way I try to ignore the annoyance of a buzzing fly. But the voice persisted.

Then I turned and noticed a guy on the other side of the fence that separates our cul-de-sac from a five lane thoroughfare. He was motioning for me to come over. At first, I flashed back to the time when my buddy Molly had a brush with indecent exposure in our B’ville days – it was the same suspicious “Pssst – hey you” beckoning that we heard that day. But since this guy’s clothes seemed to be covering his body, it dawned on me that his car might have broken down and he needed help. Maybe even medical help.

I jogged over to where he was yelling, “You need some help? Is everything okay?” When I reached the fence, however, I noticed he was holding, with arm stretched out in my direction, a little black furry thing. “It’s a puppy,” he said. “You take it?”

“Uh, I think it’s a kitten.”

“No puppy? Kitty? Here, you take it. I think it hurt”

With that, he showed me the back side of the tiny animal. It looked as if the tail was practically severed. The gash was gross indeed; it wouldn’t survive if I left it there. Mr. Landscape Maintenance was in earnest, too, and he lifted the kitten over the fence and put it into my hands. It was a new-born; its eyes hadn’t even opened yet.

At that moment, my kids reached the driveway. I hadn’t really had a chance to inspect the kitten and wasn’t thrilled to show it to them knowing that the kitten may not survive. Of course they “Ooooo-ed” and “Awww-ed” over it – and wanted to hold it, but I told them that it was hurt (and it had some type of worms on it) and that we needed to let the vet take a look at the kitten right away.

Luckily, there was a vet clinic right around the corner. We didn’t have any trouble getting an appointment, thank goodness. There, the vet examined “Kitty,” and said that she had seen worse. This kitty, although covered in maggots and only a week old, would most likely survive the vet assured us. So I paid my 82 dollars to have the kitten de-maggoted and treated with antibiotics. After being instructed on how to care for a newborn invalid kitten (feed every two to three hours 24/7, hand stimulate urination and bowel movements, remove any remaining live maggots, care for wound, etc.), I was on my way home to tackle being a sleep deprived mom once again.

The first night went okay. The kids were excitedly chatting about what we might name our new kitten and how we would care for it etc., etc. I even let them attempt to feed Kitty its special formula with the tiny dropper. Through the night, I kept Kitty warm and comfortable in my bedroom in a makeshift cardboard box bed filled with an old fleece blanket, a heating pad, and a few beanie baby kitties (donated by my two older daughters for the cause of “helping Kitty not feel lonely”). Kitty ate well, and seemed pretty feisty. A couple times I even thought this little bugger might climb right out of the box!

In the morning, I was confident that Kitty would pull through. The assistants at the vet clinic called to check on Kitty too – which I really appreciated. “Call back if you have any questions at all,” they said.

But Kitty’s appetite seemed to wane. It was fussier as the day went on. By mid-day, Kitty took a turn for the worse. I noticed that the umbilical area was protruding a bit. I called the vet and was assured, once again, that all was fine. They had noticed this at the clinic, and this was typical of newborn kittens. Okay, then.

Then I noticed the second batch of maggots. Lots of them tucked up in the umbilical area. Loads of them. I tried to take them out with tweezers. I pulled out about twenty of the little wormy buggers. It was surreal because this type of maggoty picking behavior is NOTHING like something I would do. I cringe at blood, vomit, and the like. Maggots? Totally disgusting. Still, I was almost obsessed with cleaning this kitty. No matter how many I removed, however, there were more stuffed in there. I couldn’t get them all out. Again, I called the vet at around 4:30 PM.

Around 8:00 PM, I finally got a call back from the vet. “Ugh,” she said, “I looked in the umbilical area, but I didn’t see and maggots there.

“I don’t think Kitty will make it through the night,” I responded. “It isn’t thriving. It isn’t eating as much as it was.”

“Well, bring Kitty in tomorrow morning first thing, and we take a look at it. We will even flush out any remaining maggots.”

“Great. I’ll be there as soon as the clinic is open,” I replied.

Even then, it was already too late, though. I knew it. The vet knew it. I just wish that I knew for sure what would happen so that I could prepare my own children for the inevitability of what would happen. Literally, I prayed, “God, if this Kitty is going to die soon, then help me to know that for sure.”

By 8:30 my prayer was answered, for better or worse. I noticed that Kitty’s bed was bloody. And when I went to pick Kitty up, I saw that its intestines were no longer neatly stuffed in its belly. The situation was terminal. There was nothing I could do at 8:30 that evening except to make Kitty as comfortable as I could until it breathed its last breath. So that’s what I did.

But first, I let my own children say goodbye to Kitty. As tactfully as I could, I explained that Kitty wouldn’t make it through the night, so they needed to say goodbye before they went to bed. The scene was heartbreaking. My 9 year old still held out hope that Kitty would be alive in the morning. Tearfully, each daughter said goodbye to Kitty.

For the next few hours, I held Kitty and caressed it. I told it that it was okay to relax. I prayed over Kitty and asked God to relive its pain. And eventually – exhausted as I was from lack of sleep and from enduring the stress – I carefully tucked Kitty into bed next to one of the beanie babies. Within a few hours, Kitty was gone.

You might think that after this whole Kitty saga I might be a little ticked at the vet for not euthanizing the kitty right off. I was. I would have done it myself, but didn’t have a humane way to do that at my disposal. And I shelled out 87 bucks when all was said and done. Or, perhaps you thought that I should have refused the kitty from Mr. Lawn Maintenance man right up front. That would have saved me a lot of pain (and money), for sure.

Still, I wouldn’t have done anything different. If I am committed to what I say I believe – to care for the earth and all creation; to be generous even when it costs time and money and tears – then I made the right decision. Foolish? Maybe. Nevertheless, I would do it again.

Fiction Friday

Here’s this week’s challenge:

Write the first thing that comes to mind when you read this line: Bad news cures all things.

Nightly, the fog seemed to shroud the forlorn vineyards in the late springs and early summers near Soledad. That night from her second story bedroom window, Selma mindlessly brushed and braided her long, thick chestnut hair as she watched the fog ooze across the foothills. She noted how the fog pervaded every crevice – row after row, acre after acre – of the monotonous lines of vines. Sometimes she imagined that the fog could penetrate her bedroom window and envelop her too. It never did.

So instead, Selma crawled into bed and pulled the covers up around her neck and stared at the stars and the darkness. If she could pull the darkness up over her head – to encase her entire body so that no air could seep in – she surely would. Then it would be over. She wouldn’t have to endure the arduous task of living any more. But who would love her children, then? Tim was a great daddy; the reality is, however, that enduring his wife’s death wouldn’t eliminate the fact that he would have to work every day sun up to sun down. Farm life is demanding – that’s the reality. Tim’s family live ten hours away. Her family lived half-way across the country. They were alone in raising their kids. A six, four, and an almost two year old couldn’t take care of themselves, nor did she desire that for them. Although Selma hated living, for sure, she loved her children more.

And why did she feel so sad? She had a wonderful (though sometimes absent and preoccupied) husband, three beautiful daughters, and wonderful friends. Nevertheless, she felt alone. She lived in a real house– nothing like the trailer her parents still call home, and that counted for something. The plumber – I forgot to call her. I have to remember to call her tomorrow, Selma thought. Money was tight after they decided to expand the vineyard last year, but they were making it. Why was she sad? She didn’t have a good answer for that nagging question. The sadness just seemed to be.

After a while, Selma felt the mattress sink heavily next to her, and could hear almost instantly the sleep sounds of her husband – deep breathing, a few snores. How can he do that!? I can’t ever fall asleep that quickly, she thought. No, she always lay awake for a half to sometimes a full hour before her mind would succumb to dreams. If I just lay here and think of nothing, sleep will come. Empty your brain, Selma. Stop thinking everything to death, she thought. Tomorrow, then. Selma would put off seeking answers tonight.

Early the next morning, Selma awoke to the stench of sewer – so strong that she could taste it. “Oh, shit!” she cursed frantically as she ran to the bathroom to survey the damage. The sewer must have backed up all the way up here, she thought. To her surprise, the bathtub and toilet sit there quietly and cleanly as always. Then she heard Tim holler from downstairs, “Selma – you awake? Don’t come down here without your boots on!”

Hurriedly, Selma threw on an old sweatshirt, jeans, and her old ropers and ran downstairs. As she crossed from the stairwell into the open kitchen, a wall of odor almost knocked her to her knees. With mop in hand and dressed in raingear, heavy-duty fireman gloves that she picked up at a garage sale last year, waist high neoprene waders, and a bandana to cover his face so that his brown eyes were his only recognizable feature, Tim looked as if he was ready to clean up a minor nuclear spill. “I was gonna fix you breakfast, honey, but I thought I would clean up a little first,” he joked. “Oooo wee – this is stanky stank! What have you been feeding our kids?”

“I’m so sorry, Tim! What happened?” Selma asked as she pulled her sweatshirt up over her mouth and nose, knowing instinctively that she was to blame for this disaster.

“Shit, happened, honey!” And he continued to mop the raw sewer out the back door.

“Oh, god, Tim! I forgot to call the plumber yesterday! I didn’t know it was this bad! I am sooooo sorry!!”

“You can’t always know, Selma. It was gonna happen whether you called or not. It’s been a wet spring; the septic probably just couldn’t handle all that rain.”

“Well, chances are that Joanie will come out right away now. That’s good, right?” Selma said half-heartedly.

“Yeah, it looks like you’re finally gonna get that new kitchen floor that you’ve wanted too. Tell Joanie she’s gonna have to drain the septic tank. And just be thankful that we have a bathroom downstairs, honey, otherwise we might be mopping the ceilings upstairs.” Then he went back to his mopping.

How did he do that? Selma wondered. Tim always knew how to make a major disaster seem less horrible. Where she could feel – really feel - unrestrained hopelessness, he could define a space and wall it in on all four sides. She needed Tim. She really needed him.

Selma left her ropers at the base of the stairwell and went back upstairs to gather up the kids. Hopefully Gloria could take her girls for the day. The girls loved to hang out with Gloria’s kids anyway; they didn’t get to do that enough. It’s not that Gloria never offered to take the kids. Selma just didn’t want to impose. Three kids are a lot to handle – combined with Gloria’s four - yikes. But Selma needed to acquiesce for the sake of her own children. They needed to play with other kids and sometimes venture off of the farm. Mental note: set up more play dates for the kids, Selma thought.

Later that morning after Selma got her family squared away, Joanie arrived to survey the damage. Bad news: part of the sewer line collapsed. The good news was that Joanie could repair it in the span of about two or three day’s time. Sometimes it’s good to live in a small town, Selma thought. Soledad wasn’t a terrible place to live.

Gloria practically begged to keep the kids for a few nights – she wouldn’t dream of allowing the girls to be around an open trench. Just last week after it had been raining for several days straight, a local toddler fell into a swollen, normally dry, creek. Searchers didn’t find the body until the next morning. Selma remembered seeing the parents on the local news; through controlled sobs, the mother said that she was thankful to be able to have her child for even two years. Selma knew that Gloria was right; she wouldn’t be able to bear the loss of one of her children.

The loss of a child – with that aching realization, something clicked in Selma. Life really was good to her. Her children were okay. Her husband was okay. Sure, only that morning her kitchen floor was covered in sewer, but things could be worse; it took a stranger’s pain to penetrate that shroud of darkness. Her despair was not limitless. With help, she could define it. Was it loneliness? Was it a chemical imbalance? She would find out. She would get help. Her family deserved that. She deserved that.

One down, many to go

So I finally managed to finish reading The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Actually, I flew through the first 550 pages in less than a week (which is quite a feat considering much vies for my attention). Of course, I only use that as an excuse; the truth is that I like to take my time when I read (translation: slow reader here). Talk about layered-speak!

Anyhow, I drug my feet through the last 47 pages. If you’ve read any of Dostoyevsky’s work, perhaps you’ll understand. No, it wasn’t because the plot is complicated and sometimes cumbersome to read; several passages read as if he had nothing better to do with his time than to write and write and write about that one scene – as if he anticipated to be paid by the word rather than for the complete work. Rather, what restrains my rush to finish one of his novels is, as one could guess by reading some of his book titles (Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, The Possessed…), that Dostoyevsky probes a man’s/woman’s darkness – as in spiritual, social, political darkness, and the result is always tragedy. Regardless of the riveting storyline and the richness of each character, the end of the story is shrouded also in terrible darkness.

I have to admit that I like the reality of this type of resolution – stories that have neat and tidy endings hardly ever ring true for me. Open ended endings and tragedy seem more realistic. Am I a pessimist? I like to think I’m a realist. But with this book, I grew so fond of the “hero” Myshkin that I wasn’t in a hurry for his demise to unfold. It may be because Poetroad has a colleague that reminds me very much of Myshkin. Or I may not have been in the right frame of mind to suffer the loss with the hero. Darn empathy. Always gets in my way.

Nevertheless, The Idiot is an excellent read.

Phew - all they were up to was this:

Uh - ohhhh

The four munchkins are quiet. You know that means trouble.

God Bless Texas

“Texas, Our Texas! All hail the mighty state!
Texas, Our Texas, so wonderful, so great!”

I mentioned that there is a different kind of attitude here in Texas. A patriotic pride for the United States, for sure, is present, but it’s a patriotism that hardly rivals that for the beloved “Republic.” You know, Texas was an Independent Republic at one time (let me take a moment just to interject - Vermont – get over yourself. You don’t even have an Alamo!).

“Boldest and grandest, withstanding ev'ry test
O Empire wide and glorious, you stand supremely blest.

See what I mean. Even the state song makes reference to that fact. It says, “We’ve fought lots of wars here. And we withstood the test. Okay, we lost the Alamo, but we remember it. That counts for something. And we kicked ass at San Jacinto.” Vermont, I know you have a lot of forts and stuff there, but that was all from way back when during the Revolutionary War. Sure, you seceded from the British, Vermont, but you “more or less” stayed out of the war of 1812! That was all soooo long ago.

Besides, what does Vermont have? Skiing? Syrup? You are beautiful, I’m sure, Vermont, but let’s have a level head about it. Texas has land. Lots of it. Even if no one wants to live on 6/10ths of it, you know that our people have been and are working on it.

“God bless you Texas! And keep you brave and strong,
That you may grow in power and worth, throughout the ages long.”

Do your school children know your state song? Do they even know there is a state song? That’s doubtful. Isn’t it true, Vermont, that you, in fact, adopted a NEW more singable song in 1998? More sing-a-ble.

“God bless you Texas! And keep you brave and strong,
That you may grow in power and worth, throughout the ages long.”

Vermont, you enjoyed 14 good years of being an Independent Republic. Let’s not spoil those great memories by dwelling on what “could have been.”

I digress. What I want you to know, dear readers, is that I learned the first verse and chorus to the Texas state song since I moved here six months ago. Sad to say, I never learned the state song for Oregon, and I lived there most of my life. Here at the school my kids attend, they sang the Texas state song almost every day at the school assembly (assembly – this is how the children spend the first 15 minutes of every school day, you know, getting all patriotic and loving the school and stuff). I have also learned to pledge the Texas flag, which the children recited – no joke – every day.

Our state flag

“I pledge allegiance to thee Texas,
One and Indivisible”

In Texas, the state flag is flying everywhere. Everywhere. Men and women alike wear the Texas flag, even. Texas flag shorts, Texas flag shirts, Texas flag shoes and socks and underwear. In Texas, the state flag is flown at the same height as the US flag. Not under it - beside it. It says, “I know we said we would be a part of this here United States; that’s only because we want to. Don’t get any ideas.”

When I was in Louisiana last month, once I saw the Confederate flag flying at the top of the flag pole, and the US flag was flying underneath that. But that’s another story altogether.

Fiction Friday: an offer unrefused

There is no time like the present to begin practicing... I have to admit that I did edit a little. And I spent a little more than 5 min. on these few paragraphs. What can I say - I'm rusty. Also, I have to take advantage of nap time. :)

This week's theme: Write a story/poem beginning with this line: No one refused her offer.

“…No one refused her offerrrr…” crooned the rich twangy voice as it brushed over the melodic fiddle, guitar, and bass canvas – a song painted in the same fashion that familiar old-time country tunes were.

Darkness hardly diluted the hot sticky air. Still 90 at 9:30 PM. But driving with the top down on the Jeep brought some relief. In the morning, El Paso, and then she would cross over into New Mexico. It still amazed her that she would have to drive all night long just to get to El Paso from Flatonia! Texas is big. She would never dream of driving that leg of the trip during the day, though. July heat during the day is unbearable – especially out in the middle of nowhere on I-10.

“Fearful and broken; it’s a lonesome trade….” She turned up the radio to break the constant drone from driving on the open road.

How did she ever end up in Flatonia, of all places? “Destination Flatonia: Where all roads lead.” What a joke for a town slogan. If all roads lead to Flatonia, then why has its population only grown by 353 since 1950? People come to Flatonia, but people don’t stay in Flatonia, she mused.

And now the population would be minus one. Make that two. Although, no one else knew about that yet. Instinctively, with one hand on the wheel, she rummaged through her purse for a cigarette.

Who am I?

Thought it would be interesting to do this test too (thanks for the idea PJ and Ch@ndy), and here are my results:

"You are an INFP!

As an INFP, you are Introverted, iNtuative, Feeling , Perceiving.
This makes your primary focus on Introverted Feeling with Extroverted Intuition.

This is defined as a NF personality, which is part of Carl Jung's Idealist (Identity Seeking) type, and more specifically the Healers or Idealist"

I could just as easily be:

"an ENFP!

As an ENFP, you are Extroverted, iNtuative, Feeling , Perceiving.
This makes your primary focus on Extroverted Intuition with Introverted Feeling.

This is defined as a NF personality, which is part of Carl Jung's Idealist (Identity Seeking) type, and more specifically the Champions or Inspirer.

As a weblogger, you may not be consistent in posts. Although, if you find a specific focus on their journal or a very flexible manner of writing, it may be more fulfilling..."

[ain't that the truth..."not consistent in posts", that is...]

Why either/or? Basically, I am an introvert that learned to function and/or have spent most of my life functioning as an extrovert. Being a "people" person was valued in my family. Hey, I don't blame anyone here. I count myself lucky to be ambifunctional.

Extrovert personality traits (based on this little test):

• Very talkative and outgoing [I would actually rather crawl in a hole in social situations, but in the right situation I can be outgoing. And I am always like talkative, in particular, when I am nervous.]
• Distracted easily...
• Act first, and then think

Introvert personality traits (also a la little test):

• good listener and more private
• as a hostess, always behind the scenes making sure things run smoothly
  

But that's superfluous to the crux of my personality, really. It's the "NF" (iNtuative, Feeling) that really identifies my personality. Basically, I don't like conflict or criticism in particular. Also, I need time alone to think things through regardless of the introvert/extrovert delineation. Another interesting tidbit is that for an "NF", Everything that they do must be in line with their values.

The alter-ego page explains, similarly, Every encounter and every piece of knowledge gained gets sifted through the INFP's value system...

Regardless, neither personality description eliminates the fact that I stepped squarely - and barefooted - into a pile of dog vomit today.

This can't be right...

Slow and Steady

Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy. They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder. It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment. They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

How Do People See You?

Sure, I'm fussy and all that. Cautious, yes. Careful, not really. Impulsive, very. More like "compulsive," though.

Uncocooning

Ouch. May was a difficult month (more about that later...). May is supposed to be fun, no? Spring flowers, school winding down, and all that crap? Let's just say I survived May, June is looking up, and July promises to be a real firecracker.

I'm just not that into you

Anonymity, I like y0u. I really do. But the truth is that I don't "like" like you. It's time for a change, don't you think?

Nesting

“Listen, honey, I’m not saying that I doubt you. It’s just that the evidence doesn’t seem to be in your favor.”

“No, really - I swear this is the spot. Okay, it doesn’t appear to be here, but I think I know where I am. I’m not an idiot. And I don’t appreciate your tone, might I add.”

So the swallows quibbled in unusual non-sing-songy low tones in the cove that shelters our front entry. The couple argued at length, sounding a bit like an exasperated and hopelessly lost couple after realizing that they are stranded on a service road in the middle of a forest when attempting to take a “short-cut” across the mountains.

Apparently some time after the winter migration, our landlord power-washed Mr. and Mrs. Swallow’s home into oblivion. Only a faint stain on the limestone brick remained. But Mr. Swallow wouldn’t be fooled; even if the original nest wasn’t there, he knew instinctively that this is where the nest was supposed to be. There was nothing left to do but rebuild, so the birds evidently concluded.

Over the course of the next week, beak-loads of custom made adobe were flown in (60/40 mix of mud and pine needles I’m guessing) and packed down on the old house site.

I didn’t like it. Not one little bit. First of all, birds are kind of scary. Oh, they are beautiful to spy from a distance, but with the claws and pecking beaks and all…let’s just say I feel a tremor of anxiety well in me every time I venture out the front door.

Second, there is the whole poop issue. Poop on the front door. Poop on the ground below the nest. Birds poop a lot, and the poop falls where it may. However, I’m not sure that the seemingly indiscriminate pooping is accidental. I don’t really want to be the next target.

Third, there is the whole bird/parasite synergy that I’d like to avoid. “West Nile Virus”, “Bird Flu” – need I say more? Seriously, it will keep me up at night if I dare entertain the possibility.

So I decided that I needed to encourage these birds to relocate. I thought that if I destroyed the fledgling nest that the birds would say to themselves, “Our house is ruined again! All of that hard work fallen in the poop pile! Forget about this spot. Let’s start over somewhere else.” A ridiculous assumption on my part, for sure, but short of killing the birds, I was felling a little desperate.

Being a short person, I grabbed the tallest step stool that I could (two feet tall?) and the longest broom so that I might be able to reach the packed mud fifteen feet or more above. On tiptoe, I maneuvered the broom to sweep away what I could reach of the nest. Within seconds, the façade of the nest was gone – and dropped mostly down my shirt (which is how I know the consistency of their nest building materials). Of course I screamed! And I screamed more when Mr. and Mrs. Swallow darted in and out of the alcove as they attempted to figure out what the heck I was doing to their nest.

Not deterred one bit, Mr. and Mrs. Swallow built on. Only they decided to get down to business rather than make the nest look pretty (sorry Mrs. Swallow). Abandoning the scalloped edges of the nest, Mr. Swallow concentrated on building the body of the nest.

I attempted several other times to deter the birds (one incident involved a fireplace poker tied to a long stick; the other involved my cat). But Mr. and Mrs. Swallow had an agenda that I obviously couldn’t understand. Plus, none of my feeble attempts at scaring the birds away put a dent in the thousand plus daily beak loads of adobe.

Needless to say, I put my personal quest to get rid of the birds on hold. Poetroad was glad of that. A few days later when I pleaded with him to do something about those pesky birds, he gently appealed, “Don’t get rid of them. I kind of like having the birds there.” Because he sounded sentimental, I abandoned my quest altogether.

It’s well into week two, and the nest is almost complete. Wouldn’t you know that the new nest covers the exact same spot that the old nest did? Did you know that many swallows mate for life? Did you know that mates – and/or their children – will return to the same nest every year?

Soon enough there will be baby birds twittering in that nest – a testimony to determination and a dedication to family. Yes, in their life time a nest or two is destroyed, and for sure a host of other obstacles are faced on the trek to and from Capistrano (or wherever swallows go for the winter). But they just keep on going. Sometimes that's all we can do - and that's enough.

Peachy

The color of the walls in our house are supposed to be a "peach" color, but it looks more like the color of flesh to me - which kind of weirds me out. Personally, I prefer decorating with shades of brown or blue. I also like the color red. Flesh. Nuh uh. No. Envision silly putty smeared on the walls. I'll try to ignore the flesh color for now, but I have the instinctual urge to smear a little rouge here and there.

The kitchen, on the other hand, looks like the insides of a lemon meringue pie (my favorite pie). Again, not my number one choice in color, but I can live with it. I could do without the funky wallpaper border, though. Get this - it's a repeated picture of a bird perched on a basket of fruit that is set behind a halved watermelon. I can understand wanting to put pictures of fruit around the kitchen. Really, I can. Why the inclusion of a bird in the scene? If a bird was sitting next to the exposed flesh of a watermelon that I might eat, that fruit would be in the trash expeditiously. Do you realize, people, what kind of bacteria a bird carries? Some birds have parasites and junk. What if it pooped on the watermelon? What was this artist thinking?

Thankfully, the bedrooms are a nice boring cream color (you know - the color Selene and I pained over my beautiful brown bedroom in back in Oregon). Once we put up our pictures, that will help!

Ten Things Times Two

Ten Things that have happened over the past two months in no particular order:

10. Pastor of our church resigned (yes – the very church in Austin that we relocated from Oregon for because Poetroad accepted the “Director of Worship and Arts” position here)

9. Brazilian waxed myself

8. Ice storm in Austin

7. Found out that a close friend is pregnant with her third child

6. Got lost six or more times in and around Austin

5. Joined a church

4. Was in charge of the “ambiance” for the Women’s Retreat (that means I planned and executed the décor from the “stage” to the retreat booklets)

3. Tutored a friend to help her pass an important test

2. Two year old began potty training; lots of potty on the floor, little training

1. 5^th Grade Science Fair

Ten things I’m looking forward to in the next few months:

10. Spring break

9. Visit from parents

8. Visit from friends from Oregon

7. Summer break

6. Meeting new friends

5. Bird sightings

4. Spring storms

3. Getting in shape

2. Going to the beach

1. Going to the beach!

Document That

Pardon me for getting political, but I read a letter to the editor yesterday that made me chuckle. The gist of the letter is that Al Gore is, and I cringe to use this word, a hypocrite. Gasp!

Right up front, I have to admit that I have not verified these facts (and perhaps am dangerously close to taking the path that Gore has taken…no, not the failed presidential wanna be path – the “H” path). However, even if the numbers are not exactly on target, it is easy for me to believe that the letter writer is on the right path. Basically, Mr. Gore made a little (Oscar winning) documentary in which he exposes the truth about global warming. And his other face sits comfortably in front of the (natural gas?) fire in his 20 room mansion in Tennessee.

Here’s the thing: I am all for success, and I don’t think it’s a crime that the rich live well. But it takes oodles of electricity and gas to heat and cool (and electrify) a house that large. Regardless of where his theoretical dollars go to pay for the theoretical “carbon credits,” we all know that the energy that his house uses is the same energy that Joe Schmo uses in the house next door to Mr. Gore’s.

It just goes to show that there are hypocrites in every discipline. In fact, I think I’d be hard pressed to inspect any group of “believers” (and I use that in the loosest sense of the word as I can) and not find a hypocrite or two (or a bunch). Whenever a person or a group of people make an effort to define what it is that they believe, stand for, pursue in life (whether it be “Up for Orphans” or the “Vegan Pets” society – or a religion), they run a risk of occasionally not being able to conduct their affairs according to that system of beliefs. Some will have a more difficult time than others adhering to the “guidelines,” too. If a person blatantly, egregiously, and continually lives a life counter to that system of beliefs, then I would question whether or not that person actually believes in what he says he does.

But the fact that any sect is rife with hypocrites doesn’t negate a cause or belief. So what if Al Gore is a hypocrite? I’ll still manically recycle. I can’t “un-born” my children (sorry folks – I guess I’ll have to wear the “breeder” label with pride), but I’ll still live in a smaller house than I could, I’ll still let my house get a little cooler or warmer than I can afford, and I’ll continue to modify my lifestyle in other ways because I believe that humans should do what they can to slow down global warming.

And I’ll still go to church even though I know that there are disciples of Christ (even high profile ones) who are hypocrites. Much to my chagrin, I myself have been guilty of being a hypocrite a time or two. However, I believe in the cause of Christ more - so much so that I’ll do everything I can do to live a life of integrity even though it’s pretty much guaranteed that I’ll miss the mark again. Now wouldn’t that be a scandalous documentary?!

"Scent"imental

Either Poetroad loves me...or he really loves me because this year for Valentines day I received the sentimental "Yellow Rose" (of Texas...) bouquet AND a beautiful ring (and and AND - he bought the matching, yet more manly, ring for himself). Poetroad said the roses commemorate our first year of our Texas adventure. The ring symbolizes that this is a journey of faith we are taking together (which I've felt written on my heart since September).

Achieving Balance

My two year old produced this piece. Perfectly balanced bath toys. Yes, I know these aren't rocks. Still, I think she should stack more things around the house to balance the Qi (Chi) of the place. Or the cheese. Yeah, we probably have more cheese than Qi around here.

Late Happy Valentines Day

Love you all! Happy Valentines Day!

My five year old...

saw my picture on my blog and said, "Hey, that's you, Mom!"

"Yes it is."

"You look pretty," she said. And then she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "You always look pretty, Mom."

That girl always surprises me with what she says. Today is a nice day to be surprised.

That's a bit ironic...

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Learning A New Lingidy

Well, maybe it isn't quite a new "lingidy" that I'm learning, but rather it's that I'm learning a new way to pronounce words. Here are a list of local town names, the assumed pronunciation, and the Austin correct pronunciation:

Burnett: Bur-net : Burn-it

Buda: Boo-duh : Bud-duh CORRECTION (I was corrected on this today; it's not "Bud-duh" - it's "Byoo-dua")

Elgin: El-jin: El-gen

Llano: Yah-no: Lan-o

NEW: Manchaca: Man-chaw-kuh : Man-shak (Apparently, they just cut the chase and abbreviate here. I can just imagine how that happened. Some ol' cowboy was trying to pronounce the name..."Man-chalk....uh...man-cha-cha...ah, shoot! Dadburnet! Let's just say it Man-shak.")

San Marcos: Sahn Mahr-kohs: Sahn Mahr-cus

Basically, I'm afraid to ask for directions to go anywhere from a local for fear that I might end up somewhere I didn't intend to go. Although Poetroad and I have figured out that if it's a Spanish word, if we butcher it, then we'll get close to the local pronunciation.

Ice Storm '07

The snow never really accumulated, but the ice did. KJ (pictured here) said, "This is the best winter ever!"

Just as I predicted, the town practically shut down for about two days. And some nearby towns completely shut down. Seriously. The emergency scroll on TV read, " The city of Taylor closed until 1:00 PM." Now that is some ice storm! Thankfully, we never lost power and were able to easily navigate the slushy streets. Basically, these were bonus vacation days. Yay Texas!

Better than OK (so the Texans would say...)

It figures. The year we decide to move to Texas (and, I must admit, I was looking forward to enjoying some Winter warmth), is an "El Niño" year. That means that it is raining here. A lot. On Saturday, it rained three inches where I live (five inches down town). When I talked to my mom on the phone later that day, she said laughingly, "It serves you right."

Right now, it is 29 degrees outside, and a band of rain is headed this way. Freezing rain, that is. Of course there are those of you who have had to endure worse weather conditions in the past few weeks. But you have to understand that a little ice storm in Central Texas creates a lot of crazy. Hour by hour weather reports. Weather spotters. Grocery store picked clean (as if we might have to hunker down in our houses for a week). Then again, this is Central Texas. The city just might shut down with the predicted 1/4 inch of ice expected.

In the mean time, I've been walking around town wearing flops. Just today, I decided to dig out my winter coat (which I bought in San Francisco a few years ago). Although when I was outside a few minutes ago (wearing my flops), it didn't feel that cold. It's a "warm" 29 degrees. Must be the humidity.

So this is what it's like to live in Texas...

Hi, y'all! I've been here for about three weeks, and we've finally unpacked enough for me to take a second to post a post. Here we are at the Capitol! We even took the tour. You probably already knew that Texas was once it's own country. That was news to me! (No, I wasn't asleep in U.S. History class - I never took it; crazy, eh?) But knowing that Texas was once it's own country answers a lot of my questions about Texans...

Seriously though, I'm glad to back in the blogosphere, and I hope to have more time to post now that three are in school full time.

Old Vs. New

It doesn't show up well in these pics, but the new paint color is sort of a putty/grey color. It looks great. (Of course it looks great - would I decorate any other way?) But grey is not my favorite.

Visiting Gracie

The little poets and I visited Gracie last weekend - we helped her move into her new digs. Well, I watched the younger kids and provided some decent child labor for the move. The best part was that we got to stay the night with her family on the first night that they occupied their new home. Which would have been even more perfect if my youngest had not have had an ear infection that kept us both up most of the night. Nevertheless, Gracie cooked us breakfast on her very cool stove.
You can tell that she is just a little excited to be able to cook on her OWN stove again.

On the way home, we encountered a little snow on the pass - only a few feet of the sugary stuff at the most (on our drive, JG, front right in pic below, said in awe, "Mom, snow looks like sugar!). This was the first time I've ever had to chain up on my own; I feel so grown-up now. It's safe to say that we enjoyed this adventurous weekend.

Two Hot Babes

I am on the left, and Gracie is on the right. It was her 10th birthday, and we celebrated by going to the state fair. I talked Gracie into going on the "Squirrel Cages" that day (so she reminded me recently). And ever since that day, she has been trying to stop the spinning.

Love you! After all these years, you still look the same, Gracie (only now you have much bigger boobs and better hair). My boobs and my hair, ironically, haven't really changed since then.

Getting Rid of Blue

I'm still here.

Haven't I said that before? Hmmm. It feels like I have.

So I've been busy painting and packing and cleaning - all for the sake of getting the house in presentable shape in order for someone to like it enough to buy it. The most devastating news of all this week is that I must paint my blue room, as potential buyers might be turned off by its - well - "blueness."

Here is what it looks like currently:













And I worked so hard to coordinate the colors, curtains, etc. I *made* those curtains, btw.

At first, I cried when Poetroad broke it to me. I know - silly. But I've invested a lot into my house. Since we are moving shortly to Texas, however, it's probably good that I make a clean break with my house. Like we are "breaking up" - ending our love affair. I know - crazy. It's not the first time I've been accused of that (and it won't be the last).

Goodbye, Blue. I still love you, but we can't be together. I'll remember all of those great times we've spent together, and you'll always be in my thoughts.

I'll feel lonely without you, blue. Stay strong - for the both of us. Goodbye.

Irving, Texas
vs
Austin, Texas

Right Weekend; Wrong Number

The Queen drove over for a visit this weekend, for which I am eternally grateful. I simply like to be around her, and her presence tends to have a very calming affect on my life too (particularly when things are ultra-crazy around here with the move and all). Plus, she brought the chocolate. These are the things that sisters do for each other. And, and, and she even helped me paint my bedroom! That girl is a keeper.

Later that evening, the phone rang. When I answered, I thought I recognized the voice to be Poetroad's dad. It was the same type of firm cowboy "Hello!" said in almost an accusatory sort of way as if to say, "You haven't called your dad in a long time, so I'm calling you." Also, it always sounds as if he is surprised that someone is actually answering the phone, and his tone lets us know that if someone is there to answer the phone, then his son should be using the phone to call his dad.

I thought Poetroad's dad owned that "Hello." He doesn't.

So after a few seconds of light hearted chit chat ("I wasn't sure if you would be back yet; glad you made it home okay..." - Okay, we weren't planning on going anywhere, and we weren't coming home from any place in particular, but you know how older people sometimes get a little confused...), the voice on the other end said lovingly, "Happy Birthday, Possum. You're thirty-four."

Now a normal person would have stopped that poor confused daddy right there and let him know that he indeed had the wrong number. No Possum lives here. But my heart melted. Someone's Daddy was calling her to tell her happy birthday. He loves his little Possum! I wanted to be her, and I pictured my dad on the other end of the phone. What if my daddy (who was sitting downstairs in my living room at the time - and this fact made the idea so *real* to me in the moment) accidentally called the wrong "Little Possum"? I didn't want to disappoint a daddy who was so thoughtful to call on his daughter's birthday.

"Oh, that's so sweet!" I replied. "Thank you!"

And then I hung up the phone.

I was thinking that this sweet daddy would simply assume he and his daughter accidentally got cut off, re-dial the "correct" number, and actually get in touch with the right "Possum."

But that wasn't my luck. The phone rang again. I frantically tried to explain to Poetroad what happened, and convinced him to let the voice mail pick up the call. Surely the voice mail message would clue in the caller that he had the wrong number.

It did not. The phone rang again. Like a scared sixteen year old pleading with her father to get rid of an unwanted suitor, I urged Poetroad to please, please, please answer the phone and gently set the man straight. Which Poetroad did. But it took some coaxing to convince the man that the "Jones Family" did not live here.

Poetroad said that I confused the poor man. I know I unintentionally did confuse him. Rats. But at least I didn't continue the conversation once I realized it was the wrong number. I easily could have.

Hopefully "Possum" knows how much she is loved by her daddy.

"And I still make sense only at the fringes of my thinking."

Ditto

It's good to have friends here and there.

Back to being mediocre

It's a long story, but after having a heated discussion with Poetroad last night, I have decided that I must accept the fact that I will have to be a mediocre teacher this semester. Even though it kills me a little to accept that reality, I know it is the wise decision and the right decision. A person that is trying to sort through a house, pack up the stuff, fix up the house in order to sell it - all the while taking care of her family (fixing meals, doing laundry, paying attention to the children) - cannot be all things to all people. As the old saying goes, "something's got to give."

And teaching is what will give for now. My sanity and my family are too important to me to put them aside.

Will my students even notice a difference? No. How can they miss what they don't even know to expect.

So I'm tucking my creative teaching ideas into my brain files, and I'll save them for a time when I have more time. For now, mediocrity rules!

Not surprised

But I am surprised that even though I gave some very different answers on the quiz than my friend over at 36 did, we both had the same results (and I know the answers were different because she was taking the quiz while we talked on the phone as I was shopping at "Hoochi"mart).

The Next Day

"Irate man beats neighbor into unconsciousness as woman sits in puddle of her own urine and watches. Paramedics were not able to revive neighbor, who until then was recovering from very recent heart surgery. In addition to the woman who wet herself, witnesses included ten to twelve neighborhood children."

That could have been the headline in today's newspaper had I acquiesced to the urge to pee as I witnessed the fight break out between - you guessed it - Mr. Swell and my other neighbor, "Ben" yesterday afternoon....


And that is what I began to write the next day after "The Fight," but only two paragraphs into it, ANOTHER fight broke out between Mr. Swell and a DIFFERENT neighbor.

I'll spare you all of the details of this tussle. Just know that the police came, and no one was arrested. Of course the police parked their cars in front of MY house. Good times.

The Fight

I forgot completely to tell you all about one of the highlights of my summer! I broke up a neighborhood fight. Between two adults. Two grown men twice my size in every capacity.

Of course you know that good ole' Mr. Swell was involved (you remember - the tree pruning neighbor that dislikes my daughters and thinks that Poetroad and I are terrible parents). The other dueling dad? Our friend and neighbor across the street, "Ben."

Here's how it happened... It was a warm August afternoon, and I was doing my laundry. All of the doors to my house were open, including the garage door, and ten to fifteen kids were running around the neighborhood in front of (and through) my house (as they usually do). As I was getting ready to put another load into the washer, I noticed through the open garage doors that there was some kind of commotion going on at the end of my drive way. Two kids were going at it (my neighbor Ben's son, "Tony," and "Boston" a guest of Mr. Swell's son).

Automatically, I was drawn to the scene in order to mediate the scuffle, but before I could even get through my garage, Ben ran across the street and intervened. Because his son was the one who took a nose full of fist - and because Boston was not standing down even when Tony was crying and holding his nose - Ben grabbed Boston by the shoulders and said firmly, "What do you think you are doing?"

That's when Mr. Swell tore over there and was all over Ben like a yellow jacket to a barbecue.

I nearly wet myself right then and there. Instinctively, my 10 year old got the phone and put it in my hand as I walked semi-cross-legged toward the scene. I don't even remember telling her to get the phone, but I do remember telling myself, "You cannot pee now. You have to keep it in. Don't do this."

Oh, and you should know that at the time, Ben was recovering from...MAJOR HEART SURGERY! Ten days out of the hospital, he was. So Ben really wasn't fighting at all. He was holding his arms out to protect himself from getting PUMMELED IN THE CHEST.

Unbelievable, I know, but I am not making this stuff up.

After Mr. Bell pushed Ben on his ass, and then shoved him around a couple more times, I was able to get them to stand down. At this moment, I can't recall how....but it may have been my threat to call the police or my admonition to Mr. Swell that Ben just had MAJOR HEART SURGERY 10 days prior.

There we stood on the sidewalk in front of my house - Mr. Swell, red-faced protruding-neck-veins yelling in our faces that the neighborhood kids are frightened of Ben and I because we, "Yell at the kids." Ben and I were "Bad examples" to the neighborhood kids.

And we did yell at some of the kids in the neighborhood. I yelled at a kid who was about to smash another kid in the head with a skateboard. I yelled that I would call the police if they didn't stop. Guilty as charged.

Ben yelled at his own son - who was in a group of kids - to stop throwing tennis balls at passing cars. Also guilty as charged.

But Mr. Swell didn't take to kindly to the fact that I called him a hypocrite for yelling in our faces and admonishing us for yelling simultaneously. Said he'd start bringing his lawyers in on all of the neighborhood business if any of our kids as much as sneezed at his son.

Oh, yeah. I forgot to say before the fight broke out between Tony and Boston, Mr. Swell yelled at Boston something to the effect of, "Go ahead, Boston. I'll take care of Tony's father." And Mr. Swell's own son pulled Tony over to Boston in order for the pummeling to take place.

But I would not stand down. I was tired of being bullied by that ass. Calmly, yet firmly, I said to Mr. Swell, "This is exactly why I don't talk to you any more. You are a bully. The only time we have contact is when you are attempting to berate my children, my husband, or me in an effort to intimidate us. So if there is any bully in this neighborhood, it's not Boston and it's not your son - it's you."

He was floored. Never did he think of himself as being the bully. It was always "us vs. him" in his mind. But when faced with the scenarios of our last four or five interactions, he felt the weight of the truth. And then he surprisingly admitted, "Wow, I was really an ass today, wasn't I." We agreed.

Over the next ten minutes, we actually were able to iron out our differences. I sealed our peace with a handshake and a man hug. Ben and Mr. Swell did the same.

Later on that evening, Poetroad verified what I had been thinking as I witnessed the events unfold that day: Mr. Swell was a loose cannon just waiting to go off. Who knows what will trigger the next outburst. We also concurred that things would (hopefully) be good with Mr. Swell for at least three or four months - or whenever Mr. Swell could manage to forget about the events of that day.

I'm still here

You Are Austin

A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. You're totally weird and very proud of it. Artistic and freaky, you still seem to fit in... in your own strange way. Famous Austin residents: Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, Andy Roddick

What American City Are You?

Wow - that's weird. I said that I love the West Coast, but Austin is still my city. That's totally cool because - get ready for the big news - we are moving to Austin. That's right: WE ARE MOVING TO AUSTIN, TEXAS! Yee haw! I can't hardly believe it myself.

So, as you can guess, I've been a bit busy, and this is why I haven't been blogging. And I miss you all! Here is a re-cap of my summer through September:
1. Grandpa got sick
2. Grandpa died
3. Memorial service/camping trip/Fourth of July
4. Best camping trip ever to the little known Triangle Lake
5. Funtabulous trip to Bend to visit best friend and family
6. School started (three at the same school this year)
7. Started teaching jobs (that's right - both of them)
8. Visited Austin
9. Accepted job
10. Drinking Sangria and Blogging (which is a great way to ride out on the coat tails of summer)

So we move some time in November. Well, Poetroad begins his new job on November 1, and the kids and I will stay a bit to wrap things up...such as my College Writing class (the semester ends in early Dec.). I've totally been having fun teaching my that class this semester, btw - and I'm glad that I'll end that job on a high note (this is my most fun class to teach ever).

I am, however, going to miss my friends and family here. This is a scary, scary thing I am doing - starting over in a new place. But, I am seriously excited about starting a new chapter in my life too.

You Are a Visionary Soul

You are a curious person, always in a state of awareness. Connected to all things spiritual, you are very connected to your soul. You are wise and bright: able to reason and be reasonable. Occasionally, you get quite depressed and have dark feelings. You have great vision and can be very insightful. In fact, you are often profound in a way that surprises yourself. Visionary souls like you can be the best type of friend. You are intuitive, understanding, sympathetic, and a good healer. Souls you are most compatible with: Old Soul and Peacemaker Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

What am I really avoiding?

The truth is that I have come to some realizations about me that are difficult for me to accept or understand. So I am hiding from my self. That means I am avoiding talk about anything "real" or personal. I do have some other "real" writing that needs to be written - a few stories. But I think I fear success. Isn't that crazy?

Yesterday, I had a serious blow to my self-esteem. I want to crawl in a hole. But life goes on.

Yes, curriculum. I have a week to get my stuff together. Teaching will be a nice diversion from my self.

Avoiding "real" writing

You Are a Little Scary

You've got a nice edge to you. Use it.

How Scary Are You?

Let's hear it for the rejects!

You are

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

If I can't live in Hawaii, I'll go for the runner-up

American Cities That Best Fit You::

75% Honolulu

70% Austin

65% Miami

65% Portland

60% Denver

Which American Cities Best Fit You?

Weird - this is one of my favorite colors

You Are Teal Green

You are a one of a kind, original person. There's no one even close to being like you. Expressive and creative, you have a knack for making the impossible possible. While you are a bit offbeat, you don't scare people away with your quirks. Your warm personality nicely counteracts and strange habits you may have.

What Color Green Are You?

Like-Minded

You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy)

You're a great thinker and a true philosopher. You'd make a talented professor or writer.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

IMPORTANT SAFETY INSTRUCTIONS

7. "Never use while sleeping."

I usually don't read the "IMPORTANT SAFETY INSTRUCTIONS" before I use a product, but for some reason I decided to check out the list of 15 safety instructions for my new hand held hair dryer.

"Never use while sleeping?" Did someone need to be TOLD that? You've got to know that someone must have actually done this - why else would it make on the golden 15 list?

Seriously, think about a possible scenario that brought about the lawsuit and prompted Conair to add this important warning to the safety instruction list. A person is so exhausted that he or she thinks, "Hey, I can't stay awake long enough to dry my hair, but I can just turn the hair dryer on, lay next to it on the bed here, and get a nap in. Then when I wake up, my hair will be dry!" Is that what happened?!

If your hair is so long that you might be tempted to try "sleep drying," then think about getting one of those short and sassy hair cuts. Too exhausted? Wrap your head in a towel. Better yet, shave your head and go the wig route.