Burn Barrel Romance

Scott is an early-to-bed-early-to-rise person out of necessity. He has a very physical job and while he isn’t old, he isn’t young anymore either (neither am I for that matter, being a year older than he is). By eight o’clock most nights he is in jammies and ready for bed. So when we came home after Cyra’s concert last week and Scott put his yard work clothes back on I was more than surprised.

“What are you up to,” I asked him as he slipped he shoes on.

“I’m going go burn things and drink a beer…or maybe two. Want to join me?”

“Sure. Sounds fun.”

There’s something about sitting in front of a fire with Scott that makes my insides woozy. Normally when we sit around in front of a fire it’s when we are off camping and marshmallows are involved. Not romantic, per se, but nice enough. And making a big fire in the burn barrel, while it might not involve s’mores, is fun nevertheless.

The moon and stars peeked through a mostly overcast sky and I dragged our two Adirondack chairs into the yard while Scott began building the fire. By the time I brought our drinks out – a nice IPA for Scott and a good cup of Earl Grey for me (ironically although the selling and drinking of beer is our main source of income, I don’t particularly care for the taste) Scott had a good size blaze going.

We turned off the flood lights and sat in the glow of the barrel, quietly sipping our drinks. Cyra, her bundle of nerves exhausted from the concert, had collapsed into bed soon after we arrived home and Ashleigh was glued to the internet, giggling over The Meta Picture and fan-girling to manga. The neighborhood was quiet except for the billions of frogs in the pond out front and the occasionally barking of a dog.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Scott and I ended up having a date night: out of the house, in front of a roaring fire, sharing a drink, and no kids around? Sounds like a date to me. So what that it was in the backyard and mosquitoes the size of Cessnas buzzed around us despite the heavy dose of bug spray and citronella candles.

And somehow, magically, we ended up breaking one of our cardinal rules: never, ever, talk religion or politics.

Our views are so vastly different that we don’t even try to come to a common ground anymore. We just accept that we will never see eye to eye on certain things and so those subjects are not permitted. But on this magical, burn barrel date we talked religion. And, even more surprising, it didn’t end in a fight.

I must be maturing.

I don't know exactly how the subject came up, but it all came down to the way we met. Scott claims fate: some force led us to make the choices that led us to meet – he draws the line at calling predestination (even though it certainly sounded like that to me) claiming that just because we were fated to meet didn’t mean, necessarily, that we were fated to be together.

It reminded me of my days back at Flagler when I took a Milton class (you know, Paradise Lost, that guy). Oh the debates that I demanded we have in class (remember, Sara?) all the arguments I brought up about free will versus predestination to the point where the professor had to tell me to give it a rest.

But I couldn’t. It bugs me even today. If the god you believe in is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving then you cannot have free will because he already knows what you are going to do and you can’t prove an omnipotent being false so therefore you have no choice but to do what has already been seen. That, my friends, is predestination.

Whoops!

I’m breaking my no religion, no politics rule here too! Yikes!

Back to the story! My argument is that if we were destined to meet, then all of our choices along the way are trivialized because it wouldn’t matter what choice we made, we’d still have ended up meeting. Scott argues that my view only works if our meeting is the be all end all of those choices. It got more convoluted as the evening wore on. We teased and laughed, joked and smiled. There may have been some kissing too - but I don't kiss and tell!

Regardless of the conversation, I am more than happy with the choices that led me to Scott. Whether it was predestination, fate handing us a road map, or just simple coincidence, without Scott I wouldn't have my girls, my BFF Sara, or a million wonderful memories and moments with a man I can't imagine my life without.

And that, my Friends, I wouldn't change for the world!

K is for Kibosh and Kosher

I have discovered something about my new work schedule: Thursdays are rough. The work itself isn’t difficult, but my hours? Those are killers. I work a third shift on Wednesday, get home around 7:20 am Thursday morning and have to be back at work by 3pm. This is called the turn around shift and it’s working me over something fierce.

I don’t sleep well during the day when I work graveyard. The phone rings and I have to get it because what if it’s the girls calling? The dog barks and I need to figure out why since she only really barks if a stranger approaches the house. The amount of caffeine I consume during the night works it way out of my system while I’m trying to sleep and I end up getting up two and three times to use the bathroom. The eastern sunlight cascades through my window and though I have blinds, it probably wouldn’t hurt to throw up some light blocking curtains.

So, Thursdays? Yeah. They’ve got it out for me. Something about the T days, I guess, because Tuesday always throws me too.

That said, I haven’t got a story for today’s words. And I feel like a complete heel because of it. Not because I’m disappointing my admiring fans (you guys are admiring, right?) but because I really wanted to have a story to share and I just…can’t today.

It’s 10 am Friday as I’m writing this and I’m ready for a nap. I want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over my head.

Jeesh. I’m surely pitiful! But I’m gonna put the kibosh on that right now! That kosher with you guys?

Kibosh is a noun from the 1940s meaning to put a stop to something and kosher an adjective from the 1920s meaning fair (or a term that describes food prepared according to Jewish dietary law found in the Torah). 

Example: Kelly was keen to kibosh Kevin’s kidney knickknack collection. But Kevin’s counselor claimed that the whole thing was kosher.   

This post has been brought to you by the Letter K and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 1418. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

A Bit of History, Gone.

Along with all of the other devestation that Sandy has caused, a minor news blip that got almost no attention (from what I can tell) is that the tall ship, the Bounty, sank off of the coast of North Carolina.

Sank.

The Bounty.

It might have been just a replica built for a Hollywood movie but it was history. History that I walked upon and touched. History that introduced my girls to Marlon Brando. History that now lies at the bottom of the ocean.

Sure it isn't as tragic as the loss of the Titanic or the Lusitania. It isn't as pressing as the flooding in New York - my home state - or the tens of thousands without power. But I'm sad about it nonetheless. Maybe because there aren't many tall ships left in this world of gas and metal. Maybe because The Bounty represented a time and age that I long to be a part of.

Here's a blurb from CNN that shows rescue footage of three of the crew members and another from the Washington Post.

I wrote about the Bounty a few months ago when it docked in St. Augustine and the we took a tour walking the deck where Marlon Brando and Johny Depp walked - not that I'm a big fan of Depp but yeah it was used in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies too.

Big Dream One: The RV Life

I’ve always been a big dreamer. I set my sights on goals that are almost unattainable like winning the lottery despite never actually playing the lotto. I dream of sailing around the world in my custom built 60 foot sailboat, The Hyperbole, despite the fact that I get seasick just looking at a boat. I dream of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail despite my overwhelming fears of aliens, sasquatch, and alien sasquatch. I dream of opening a gaming shop with my husband even though we’d end up strangling each other after the first day or two. I dream of a bakery with Sara even though she isn’t nearby.

I dream Big Dreams.

Two of the most diametrically opposite Big Dreams have been at the forefront lately. One stems from my love of travel and sightseeing, the other from my growing desire to be self-sufficient. A third Big Dream is really the most realistic it's just a matter of pushing myself. 

Today I’m going to talk about Big Dream Number One.

Before I met Sara, home to me was a place. A single location where roots were set down and bonds formed in the community. Home was a tangible, unique space. Growing up, I moved around a lot. Maybe not more than a military family, but it seemed every few years we were up and going somewhere else. I hated it. I wanted a place that was ours and we’d never have to leave. Sara, however, taught me that home wasn’t a place and roots could be transplanted quite easily. Home is my family: Scott and the girls. If I’ve got them, then I’m good. It doesn’t matter where we live. I’m sure I would have figured this out eventually, but Sara, being awesome, helped speed the process up.

The longest I’ve ever stayed in one house was six years. It seems that maybe all that moving around in my youth stuck with me and I get itchy feet every three years or so. There’s a Tom Petty song I love, Time To Move On, and I am fairly certain he meant it to be my theme song because I always have this need to just go. 

Dream Number One would help to alleviate those feet. If I had any assets to liquidate, I would do so immediately, buy an RV (I really like this one and this one) and take to the road. I would love to travel the back roads with the girls and Scott exploring every nook and cranny this country has to offer. How cliché, right? But how very cool would it be to wake up in the morning and say, “Hey, let’s go check out Montana” and just go? How freeing is that? Today I feel like…New Mexico…Next week, how about Ohio?

If I RV’d my life I would certainly have to make some major changes. And maybe they’d be for the best. The appealing idea here is that not only would I get to travel the country, but I would have to, by the very nature of living in an RV, downsize my life. Go minimalist. I am the first to confess an attachment to my stuff: books, craft supplies, gaming supplies, bakeware, all my Christmas decorations! Gack! Just thinking about not putting my Santas out on display makes me squirm in my guts. But like wiping a blackboard clean, there is something very appealing about getting rid of everything. I’m not anywhere close to being a hoarder. I’ve seen true hoarding and trust me, it keeps me in check! And surely anything that I could not bring myself to part with would find a home in storage until I needed it again.

Maybe after a few years or so driving the road, I’d yearn to plant myself firmly in one spot.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Independence Day in Photos

I've been trying to write about my Independence Day activities all day long and really, I'm struggling. Not because it was boring or excessively magical but...oh this funk that I am in. Curse it all! So I'll just give a brief photo essay.

I wanted to beat the traffic and get a good parking spot, so the girls and I headed down town around 1pm.

I brought the girls on an actual tour of Flagler. Both of them want to go here and I am encouraging that whole-heartedly. I love the idea of my girls going to my Alma mater as well as something local. Here's a snapshot of the front entrance. I've got more photos to come on Friday.

After the tour we headed over to the playground for a bit before headed back to the Plaza to catch a concert. Big band sounds with tons of patriotic music. Listening to Cyra sing along to Proud to Be An American made me tear up just a bit.

 

It was nice to lay back on our picnic blanket and stare up into the sky. So very relaxing and peaceful despite all of the hustle and bustle going on around the Plaza.

Then around seven we decided to find a place to nosh! The main roads were quite crowded and our favorite pizza place had a line out the door so we wandered the back streets until we stumbled upon a tiny little British pub, The Prince of Wales.

We stood in the street looking over the menu for a minute before we decided to head in.

"You know, this seems a bit...dodgy." I said to Ashleigh.

"What do you mean?"

"Eating at a British pub on the Fourth of July?" I replied. "Isn't that a bit, you know, wrong?"

Ashleigh giggled a bit.

"Well," I continued, "If I had been around back then, I probably would have been a loyalist. I like tea too much and I don't like to rock the boat."

The dessert menu. Guess which one we ordered?

I'd never had it before and I giggled the whole way through eating it. Cyra wasn't to partial to it but Ashleigh devoured her share!

After dinner, uncomfortably full, we headed over the lawn of the Fort to find a place to sit. The crowd was...more than I expected but not too bad all things considered.

Out of all the photos I took of the fireworks, this one came out the best and it is by far my favorite. You can clearly see the outline of the Fort as well as the nearly full moon peeking out from behind one of the towers. A beautiful finale.

I won't go into details about the drive home. It is sufficient enough to say that the fireworks were over at 10, we got to car about 10:15 and we pulled into the driveway just about midnight.

Angry

Lately I have had this bubble of anger sitting in my chest. I know it isn’t PMS because it has been there, ready to explode at a wrong glance, a wrong tone, a wrong breath since before the New Year. I am angry at serious and frivolous things alike. My anger isn’t directed at anyone. It is just there. Existing in a place that I am determined to keep locked down, beaten back and tamed.

I am angry

…because I let Scott convince me that it was okay to quit my job.

…because he was so good at convincing me (although to be fair, I really didn’t need much convincing).

…because I have been passed over for every single job I have applied for, even the ones I didn’t really want in the first place.

…because my best friend hurts and I am helpless.

…because I still have to budget every cent perfectly or we end up not eating or paying a bill.

…because I can’t buy my children the things they want.

…because every decision I make is based on needs versus wants.

…because I let friendships slip away and do nothing about it.

…because I can’t afford to buy chickens and rabbits yet.

…because some conversations always end in a fight no matter what I do.

…because I won’t stick to a diet or exercise routine.

…because I don’t want to disappoint my family and I know I do.

…because I feel isolated and alone.

…because I cry and can’t explain to Scott why.

…because every time I sit down to write, I end up staring at a blank screen wondering where I got this crazy idea that I could write.

…because I waste so much time doubting my own abilities.

…because I shouldn’t have to justify or defend my choices.

…because nine years ago I listened to one single doctor instead of getting a second opinion.

…because the one thing in the world that I want I don’t think I can ever have.

I am angry because I feel so very angry.

I feel wrapped up in a tornado hovering over a whirlpool right next to the edge of a black hole. And it makes me want to puke.

Anger is akin to gravity I think. A silent invisible force that you don’t really think about until BAM! There it is whipping your emotions into intense hot radiating flames that strike out without warning. Ran out of milk? No problem any other day, but today? ANGER! And that empty milk jug represents all that is wrong in the world and who the Hell can I yell at and blame because Bloody Hell there isn’t any milk for my Damn coffee. Disregard the fact that I was the one that drank the last of it yesterday at dinner when I just had to have a Black Russian.

It would be nice if we could subdue our emotions like Vulcans, but that would detract from our humanity and play into a fantasy. And my anger, petty and frivolous as it might be, is still very real and very painful and I should acknowledge it.

And now that I have, I can figure out what to do with it.

I can’t change what happens in life any more than I can change the rotation of the moon. But I can change my attitude and my emotional outlook on things. So, I might be angry right now for a variety of reasons but that certainly doesn’t mean I can’t change how I feel. I can accept the anger for what it is and work to overcome it, to turn it into something positive. As it happens I claim to like change and Scott says I thrive in chaos. The very circumstances I find myself in right now: Change and Chaos. I certainly wouldn’t mind if the universe calmed down a bit for me…smoothed out some of these rough patches that I am feeling, maybe even made something easy for me.

But maybe that’s too much to ask for, so leave off the easy part. I can deal with doing things the hard way.

And I certainly don’t mind a challenge.

So…I guess that means smooth is out too.

Sigh.

Deja Bill

I’m cyclical. I have my routines and I like them. So it should come as no surprise that every February 2nd, along with millions of other Americans, I watch Groundhog Day. Every year, I see something different in it. This year, before even putting it in the DVD player, I recognize the self perpetuating rut that Bill Murray is stuck in. And I sympathize because I am also in a rut.

Unemployed, overweight, unproductive. Full of self pity, self woe and self hate.

Everyday is the same thing. I might not wake to Sonny and Cher every morning, but the metaphor rings out with truth. The alarm rattles my brain. Kids get up. Kids to school. Chores. Craft. Look for a job. Walk. Chores. Cook dinner. Chores. Go to bed and the cycle resets. If you say it quick enough it gets very chanty, like monks in prayer.

Nothing. Ever. Changes.

Bill Murray escaped from his rut by opening himself to new experiences and opportunities and love. I’ve got love. Being unemployed is certainly a new experience. And opportunities? Well, I’m not to sure about those.

The problem I seem to keep coming back to is that I feel I am not contributing to the house. I am here all day, doing wifely and motherly things, but I’m not bringing in money and our attempt to make a better financial future for ourselves is now being severely undermined.

When I left my job back in August I was confident that I would find something else. As August rolled into September and October, I was still determined, but more than a little worried. I started applying for jobs that I knew I wouldn’t like: waitress, night audit, retail. All jobs I’d did my time in before. And the sad thing is, I wasn’t hired for any of them. I wasn’t even called in for an interview. At a few places I was told I was too qualified. What the heck does that mean? I am too educated and therefore I can’t serve food. Seriously?

November came and with it company and the holidays. I put job hunting on the back burner and crossed my fingers that we’d be okay with just Scott’s salary. And it turns out we were okay. But only just. As before, we have no extra padding in our bank account. Each dollar, every penny is accounted for.

Should I have left my job knowing I had no job offer in the works? Yes. The commute alone would have killed the car and cost us in daycare expenses. Plus, I was unhappy in my work. I felt that I wasn’t making any difference in the lives of the students I taught. I grew frustrated by all the mandates from the district and state. And my frustration and anger was often taken out on Scott and the girls. It was the right decision for us to make. I am a much more pleasant person to be around now.

But still…I’m in this rut. And like Bill Murray, I sometimes despair at ever escaping it. Bill Murray eventually accepts responsibility for his actions and more importantly for his moral development. If he is to escape from a time loop, he must take action to make it happen for himself.

Eight years ago the commencement speaker at my college graduation said to us, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” Ten tiny powerful little words that I had never really thought about…until the other day when I was going through my letter box and each card my dad had sent me in the last eight years had this saying scrawled in the bottom left corner.

If it is to be, it is up to me.

If I am to escape from the rut that I am in then it is my own devices, intellect and actions that will make it happen. I cannot forever wait on the universe to go my way for in doing so I would be playing into a belief that the universe and all in it revolves around me and my wants.

So, Good-bye Rut. I’m tired of you and your silly nonsense. Today is the last day I allow myself to wallow. Yesterday I cried for something I did not have. Today, I scream to the world, what I want I can have if I make it happen.

Like Bill Murray, it is all up to me. My attitude needs to change. My habits need adjustment. My actions need to reflect my goals.

WWBMD – What Would Bill Murray Do?

I wonder if I can get that on a bracelet.

Jumping In

Back in 5th grade we had an end of the year field trip to Moriello Pool. Moriello Pool, like any other community pool, had concession stand, a slide, a kiddie pool, two diving boards and a playground. The highlight of the end of year celebrations, we always looked forward to the trip.

Clear blue skies, soaring temperatures made the day seem perfect and endless. A group of us gathered along the edge of the pool near the deep end and set up our towels and our boom box (yes, it was that long ago). The lifeguards made us swim a lap across the deep end in order to test our swimming ability. Anyone who couldn’t make a lap had to stay in the shallow end.

My friends and I easily pass the exam and spent the next hour splashing and jumping, playing Marco Polo, giggling. There was a lot of giggling. After a while we all got out to lie on our towels and watch the other kids still in the pool. Many kids more adventurous than I were taking turns on the high dive. We laugh as they plough into the water more often than not flat on their stomachs.

Not to be outdone by our classmates we make the choice to each take a turn diving. One by one, we file over to the high dive. Soaring twenty feet above the surface of the water I stare up at it as the line slowly moves forward. I’ve always been nervous about heights. Not so much the being off the ground part, but the falling to my death part.

I count the kids in front of me. Ten more until my turn, five, four, three, Oh my God two, Jeez what the hell was I thinking one… Crap, my turn.

I place my hands on the ladder.
One foot on a rung.
Two feet on the rung.
Hands moving up.
Climbing.
Gulping.
Breathing.
Looking down.
Five feet off the ground.
Hand, hand.
Foot, foot.
Up and up.
Breath.
Ten feet.
Fifteen feet.
Breath.
Hand, hand.
Oh My God, the top.

I’m on the top. My hands clench the railing and turn white. I look down again. Big mistake. I back up a little my heel skims the edge of the board. I know the rungs are right there. I can just climb back down. Back to the ground and I’ll be fine. I look down. Three of my friends still wait below. Two of my friends cling to the side of the pool watching.

I feel like I’m in a movie when everything slows down. Seconds feel like minutes and each thud of my heart rattles my ribcage. Chlorine stings my nose and shrieks, giggles and squeals of laughter are drawn out and echo across the pool.

I look down again and my best friend smiles up at me and nods. She knows how scared I am. She knows that I want to climb back down. And I know that if I do climb back down she won’t think anything less of me.

I move to put my foot back on the top ladder rung, but stop a mere inch before my toes touch. My best friend might not think any less of me. The other kids might tease me about being scared. And that isn’t a big deal.

My mom raised me to not worry about what others think. It’s what I think that matters to me. And I know that if I climb back down the ladder, I would disappoint myself.

I put my foot back on the board. I took a shuffling step forward. One foot after the other, my hands edging along the railing until there was no more railing. I slide my feet along, letting go of the railing. As I make my way to the end of the board each step the board flexes and bows beneath my feet. I reach the end of the board. Bouncing gently, both feet on the board, arms outstretched for balance.

I push down a bit with my feet and come up on my toes. Push down. Come up. Push down. Jump out. The board disappears. Wind whistles across my face. My eyes screw shut. My stomach drops — No. I drop. Feet first. Arms out and up. I gulp in air. I scream. I suck in a lungful of air. My feet hit the water and then I’m under. I slow down, pause, my feet start scissor kicking, propelling me up, my arms pulling through the water.

I break the surface, gasp and shake the hair and water from my face. I look up at the board. My best friend stands on the end and with only the slightest of hesitation plunges in.

She surfaces near me and we swim to the edge of the pool.

“I didn’t think you were going to do it,” she says. “You looked like you were going to throw up.”

“I felt like I was going to throw up.” I tell her.

“But you did it.” She smiles at me and hoists herself out of the water onto the concrete. “Want to go again?”

“Nope,” I tell her. “One risk a day is plenty for me.”

Back then jumping off the high dive at the community pool seemed daring and life altering. I was a risk-taker, Damn it! And I could do anything!

Now, risk taking seems more weighted, more intense and important. Taking a risk must be weighed against what is best for my family. And despite all assurances, taking a risk is more than just jumping off a diving board.

I want to take the risk. I want to jump in fully committed with my eyes open and no hesitations this time.

But if I screw up…

If I can’t make it work…

Two tiny letters. One HUGE concept.

If.

Back And Better Than Before. Probably.

I’ve been in dark places before. Back in high school I went through a stupid dark place.

I haven’t posted here in a while because I was once again in a dark place and I had no interest in blogging about it. I still don’t, so don’t look for me to go into the details now.

But I am coming back to myself, I think, with a new location, a new attitude and a new purpose. I’m ready to talk again, ready to write here again.

I hope you’ll come along for the ride it is sure to be exciting…at the very least quirky and maybe even entertaining. There’ll be adventures in parenting, writing, teaching, crafting, gardening and maybe some chickens.

Cheers,
Heather

When It Isn't, It Really Is.

I have had a lot on my mind lately and for that reason I have taken a break from blogging here. No worries though, because when I have something to say I'll say it loud and clear.

Keep tuned.

All Of A Sudden

School has started and my Summer of Bumdom has come to a sudden halt.

All of a sudden, I have to do things again…Make lunches, iron clothes, do laundry in a timely manner, make sure the children are clean, check homework, sign planners, write lesson plans…my days have gone back to unending.

All of a sudden, there aren’t enough hours in the day and every little thing seems to manifest into a much larger problem than one would image. Minor insignificant things like food consumption become monumentous*.

All of a sudden, getting out of bed and eating breakfast, once a leisurely activity involving giggles and morning tickles, has morphed into a bleary-eyed stumble down stairs and into walls kind of affair. Making lunches demands forethought and planning at an hour far too early for either. Let us not even discuss the chaos that is dinner!

All of a sudden time becomes important and I am once again telling time by PBS morning cartoons. Between the Lions becomes “Please do not take 30 minutes to eat half a cup of cereal” time. Maya & Miguel becomes “go get dressed right now or else” time. Arthur becomes “Do you have everything together cause we’ve got to go right now” time.

All of a sudden, everything is a big rush.

All of a sudden, I realize once again how precious every little moment is…reading Cyra a story at bedtime, tucking Ashleigh in after she’s already asleep because she is “too grown-up” for tucking in, playing a card game after dinner…

It is these moments, of course, that all of a sudden, I remember mean more than what they are.


*Yeah, I made up a word, but that’s okay because I have a degree.

Seven Hours and Four Days Later

Seven years ago, I was diagnosed with Pulmonary Embolisms (PE). Turned out that what I thought was a back ache was my lung slowly dying. Turned out that the excruciating pain I was having when breathing was my body screaming for oxygen, not walking pneumonia.

I spent a lovely week in ICU. I survived and went on a regiment of blood thinners and a diet sans most green things (although occasionally, I just cannot resist a good Caesar salad or tender asparagus). In the back of my mind, I am constantly scanning my body for any odd quirks or twinges that might signal something serious.

On Monday, after a weekend of intense deep cleaning of the house (we had a buggy issue) I woke up with a slight twinge in my back. While annoying, I attributed it to the weekend work and a possible muscle strain. I went on with my day. I brought the girls to zoo camp. I spent a quiet child-free day puttering around the house.

On Tuesday, I woke up feeling yucky. My back hurt a little more, I was still tired and groggy. And that was after I had actually gone to bed at a decent hour. I brought the girls to zoo camp and spent the day running errands. That night, still feeling gross and now mildly concerned about my back I vowed that I would get back into good habits and back into a healthier lifestyle. That night I blogged about my goals and promised myself to make changes in my life.

On Wednesday morning, around 3:30 am I woke up, still in pain and unable to get comfortable in bed. A warning sign flashed behind my eyes as I lay in the bed trying to go back to sleep. “Danger! Danger!” it flashed. You remember this kind of pain, my brain told me. I wanted to ignore my brain. I really did. But dutifully, I filed a Post-It note right in my cerebral cortex with big bold words in red: IF Deep breath=Pain THEN Go to Doctor ASAP!! Proud of my mental filing system, I got out of bed (there wasn’t anyway I was going back to sleep) and walked the dog.

After that, I felt ok. Not great, but not…panicked. Until…

My friend from work was hosting a Tastefully Simple party and as it sounded fun and as it involved food and being child-free, and as it was good company, I went. About halfway through, my early morning wake-up call caught up with me and I yawned. Big. Deep breathe in = Sharp stabbing pain.

My mind ripped through my mental Post-Its and landed on the one I wrote that morning. Refusing to panic, I acknowledged the symptoms that were so reminiscent of what I went through seven years ago. I went home. Told Scott and made arrangements to go the ER the following day.

On Thursday morning, I brought the girls to zoo camp and made the decision that I would wait until after I picked Cyra up to go to the ER. I was afraid of how long the testing would take and that Cyra and Ashleigh would be stranded. Obviously, I had people I could call, but I did not want anyone to panic. (I’m considerate.)

So Cyra and I headed to the ER. Scott met us there. And after seven hours of testing I left with a clean CT scan, a clean chest x-ray, a bruise from the I.V. line, and a diagnosis of “undetermined back/chest pain.” The doctor felt that it is most likely muscle strain, but that it was good that I came in because my Coumadin levels were too high. And as he said, “Pulmonary Embolisms aren’t something to play around with. And while there isn’t anything wrong with you, it is good to know that you are listening to what your body is telling you.”

Today I woke up after very few hours sleep, comforted in the knowledge that I woke up at all, pleased in my desired lifestyle changes and motivated to get started!

It's Like Tom Petty Said

This month marks the tenth anniversary of my move to Florida.

When I first moved down here in 2000 with Ashleigh and Amanda, I told my family that it was not a permanent move. I was going to finish college and return. I didn’t want Ashleigh growing up without my family around and I certainly knew that I was not going to like living in Florida long term- I’m a small town, north-eastern girl at heart and besides, Florida is just too damn hot!

But a strange thing happened. My mom and my sister followed me down. And on the one hand it was good. It was nice to have family around when I was in a pitch. They offered a solid rock I could ground myself to in a jam. But on the other hand, I felt almost obligated to stay. They followed me down here, I thought, and that’s not nothing. So I stayed too.

I took a full-time, permanent job teaching 8th grade. I sunk roots into a house that I thought would be a home. I tried to be a member of a community. I became a Girl Scout leader.

But five years later, the job is still just a job. I’m certainly not passionate about it and it is not something that I see myself doing for the rest of my life. I can teach. I’ve no problem with that. But I’m apathetic about it. I’ve never really cared about it. For me, it’s a paycheck. And if it were any other job I don’t think it would matter as much. But as a teacher? I should be passionate and excited about it. That’s the kind of teacher kids need.

The house is still just a house – one that I wish I could get rid of as it is taking everything we have to keep us afloat. Caught in that stupid bubble, I now have a house worth 60K less than what we purchased it for, so there is not hope of selling it right now. Plus, it takes my entire salary to pay for it, so we have no extra money for anything. Honestly, if I hadn’t been raised with the morals I was, I would have already walked away from it.

I’ve learned, not without some help, that a home isn’t a place. You can’t put “home” on a map. The family is what makes wherever you are a home, be that a mansion, an apartment, an RV, or a cardboard box. It’s the “who” that counts, not the where or what.

I think what it comes down to really is this: A decade is a long time to be in one place. I’ve got this itchiness in my feet. This feeling that I have overstayed my welcome in Florida. What was meant to be a three or four year stint tops, has stretched into this, long inescapable road with no exits. Well, I will not be corralled into a future that isn’t where I want to be. And if I can’t find an exit, well, I guess it is time for me to forge one myself.

And so as Tom Petty sang, “Under my feet, baby, the grass is growing, yeah, its time to move on, time to get going.”

Untitled - March 22

Death is never an easy thing to deal with, but I imagine that it is easier to accept when a person has lived a full life or spent a long time fighting an illness. But the death of a young person…I can’t even imagine it. And yet today, I faced it.

One of my former students was shot in a drive-by on Saturday. Out for a drive with her sister and cousin…In the wrong place at the wrong time…

She was 16.

She was one of the truly nice students I have had the pleasure of teaching over the years. She was a sweet girl, friendly and outgoing.

To her family, my heart and thoughts go out to you.

It's a Wiener

It all started with the cinnamon balls. My Daisy troop was making part one of their Christmas project, cinnamon applesauce ornament dough rolled into little balls so as to fit inside a paper ornament. As I was the one who brought the cookie sheets for the balls to dry on, they balls came home with me.

I put the three ball filled cookie sheets on the dining room table and didn’t think about them again until Ashleigh came downstairs and made the comment, “Mmmm, Cinnamony.”

“Yup. All my cinnamon balls smell l good.” I replied.

Ashleigh smirked. “That just sounds wrong, Mommy.”

“What?” I say, “Cinnamon balls.”

“Yes,” she replies with a giggle and a blush furiously creeping up her cheeks.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, “Has someone learned some new word meanings.”

More blushing and snickering and a small little nod.

So my response? I burst into a song about dangly parts and cinnamon balls. Ashleigh’s response? Fleeing upstairs.

What’s a mom to do? Of course I chased her singing and snickering. And there at the top of the stairs stood a pajama clad Cyra.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“I’m teasing Ashleigh.” I say.

“Cool. Can I help?”

“NO!” shouts Ashleigh. “I’m going to bed.”

“What are you singing about?”

“Dangly parts.” I say with a laugh. “Now off to bed with you all.”

Cyra walked to the door of her room and paused with a hand on her hip.

“I know what they are called, Mommy,” she says.

“Really?” I say and look at Ashleigh. “What are they called?”

With a blushing grin she says, “It’s a wiener.”

NaNo-Crazy

October has hit hard, crafts have been pushed to the side, work is demanding (now that I’m essentially department head) and holidays are fast approaching. So the big question now is what happens next. Well, as far as I am concerned I am determined to “win” this year at Nano. So the only thing that I am concerned about is words! 50.000 words to be exact. October will be for planning and plotting. And November? Oh sweet November. I can’t wait!

Because (and let me repeat): I AM DETERMINED!!!

You got that? All in caps! I am going to win. Come Hell or High Water. If it kills me. Throw in your own cliché here and that’s what it is!

Every year previous, I have been waylaid by other obligations (holidays, birthdays, crafting and work) that I thought were important or might get fired over, this year? Screw it! If I get fired, well, that’s one more reason for me to succeed in this endeavor! So what if the sink is piled with dishes? So what if the kids wear the same clothes for a week on end!

So, Skype will be turned off when I am home and writing. So dinners will be quick and easy (and probably not at all healthy). The phone might ring, but I won’t answer. Cyra will get a cake, but no big broo-ha-ha! Thanksgiving? Maybe I’ll cook, but I won’t socialize and in between basting and pie making, I’ll be writing.

I am not going to be remembered for my awesome cleaning ability or my devotion to a job. On my death bed, I don’t want people to think back and say, “If only I hadn’t cared so much about laundry, I might have gotten a book written.” On my death bed I want to say, “Fuck Yeah! I am proud of what I did with my life!”

So the coffee if fully stocked. My notebook is empty and full of potential. The computer is mine. The plot is set and in two months, I’ll see where it has brought me.

Where have I been?

I’m still here. I swear. My sister commented today that I haven’t updated my blog for a while and what’s up with that!

I am a bad blogger!!

There are some reasons for my lack of blogging: my computer got sick and needed a new hard drive (thankfully I had backed up all my stuff), I’ve been going to the beach and out with the girls a lot, I’ve been enjoying the laziness of summer…reading trashy novels on the patio, reading really good novels on the patio, playing D&D and Sims, drinking Mojitos, and really just spending time doing nothing which if you think about is the best part of summer vacation. I have no time tables or schedules to follow. I am not bound by obligation to anything or anyone.

Another reason or two: I took the initiative (and those who know me well be shocked and maybe even proud) to start my Christmas crafting now, which is really hard for me to wrap my brain around. Normally, I am rushing and panicking from November through December trying to get everything done. This year? I don’t want to do that for two major reasons:

1) the crafts that I’m doing take time this year
2) NANOWRIMO

The first reason is self explanatory so I will not go into detail, but the second? The second reason is the important one.

For the last four out of five years I have participated in NANOWRIMO – for those not familiar with NANO it stands for National Novel Writing Month. Essentially, a few guys out on the west coast started this idea with the concept that everyone says that they want to write but never do it. Add to that the fact that most people work better with a deadline and you get NANO: One Month, 50,000 words. There is no prize or award, just the satisfaction and pride of doing it.

Every year that I have participated I have not gotten anywhere near to the goal word count. Last year my word count was the highest at 20,000+ (I have more written just not typed so the word count isn’t accurate). But then things happened: Girl Scouts, School, Thanksgiving…pair with that Christmas crafts and my dedicated writing time flew away like a sweet little sparrow chased by a vicious hawk. It was sad for me to make the decision to sacrifice writing time for other things. This year I don’t want to have to make that type of choice.

So, in answer to where have I been. Here. Doing stuff. I’ve got tons to blog about: The rest of my trip, Amanda’s wedding, the Birthday Fiesta O’ Fun, the beach. It’s all here floating around my head waiting.

Summer is about being lazy, especially if you are a kid or a teacher (or a teacher who most of the time acts like a kid). And if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s okay to be lazy, just not all the time.

Cheers! I am off to make some more Mojito Magic!

Conflicted Schedules

Where does the time go? I had very precise schedules for the two weeks between the end of school and the trip to New York. I wrote everything down in my planner. I’m playing by the rules, why is everything else not?

I now have just over eight days to get ready to go. This coming week is so crazy busy I doubt that I will have time to sleep unless I schedule it in.

Sunday – mad morning cleaning to get ready for Game Session #4. I love my new gaming group. They are unobtrusive and only come over once every two weeks or so. Unfortunately, that means that I am unmotivated to clean until the day before or morning of their arrival. It’s my own fault, I know. I just don’t like cleaning when I could be doing other more fun things.

Monday – The girls have dentist appointments in the afternoon. Now I know it is crazy to have kept the doctors in St. Augustine, but I love our doctors and dislike change, so to St. Augustine we go. Of course, if we are in St. Augustine, then I don’t have to go out of my way to go to Mango Mango’s for lunch.

Tuesday – Cleaning/laundry in the morning, then I have a four hour test in the afternoon. Most likely it will only take me about one hour, but still. I am taking my Social Science subject area test so I can add history to my certification.

Wednesday – We are going to the zoo. I could skip it; however, I am on a scrapbooking mission where I have envisioned this awesome “Year at the Zoo” book and Wednesday is the only day I can go in order to meet my June visit requirement.

Thursday – Another test, ESOL this time, first thing in the morning. As an ELA teacher I am required to be certified in this. I am wholly unprepared for this test as there doesn’t seem to be a study guide for it anywhere. But I figured at this point, take it blind and then I can review from my collection of textbooks as needed. In the after noon I need to continue doing laundry and start packing.

Friday – cleaning, packing, laundry, shopping

Saturday – prepare for Father’s Day…still don’t know what I’ll be doing for Scott. Continue laundry and complete major packing.

Sunday – Father’s Day…big breakfast maybe, Scott really likes that. Pack car. Get a good night’s sleep to get ready to vamoose in the early, early AM.

Not scheduled in this list, but I need to find time for: plan, start and complete favors for the Birthday Fiesta O’ Fun, compile list of recipes and shopping list for said Fiesta, special order mint from Publix (all because of my cursed thumb-its black not green!), play with girls, go to pool with girls, hang out with Mom, call the mortgage company and plead with them to help me, curse out the mortgage company because I know they won’t help, call/email my non-family peeps in NY and make arrangements to hang out…

I need a secretary!
A team of hirelings that I can command to do my bidding!
At the very least, I need more hours in the day!

The Snags of Reality

The problem with reality? It keeps butting into my day. I have about four or five posts in the works, but can I ever finish one? Nope! Silly things like work...cooking dinner...sleep keep interrupting my day. If only I could win Powerball, I'd spend hours upon hours followed immediately thereafter by days upon days writing and actually finish something. What I have found though is that I am finally getting back into a routine...it only took nearly 10 months.

In other news, Ashleigh has completed her last project for the 6th grade. Behold the awesomeness that is Little Miss Hula Spud!!

Why was she assigned a project to dress up a potato? I'm not sure I want to know, but she had a blast doing it. I helped by hinting at aesthetics and suggesting the plastic fish bowl that was gathering dust in the attic over an old shoebox. Other than that, it is all Ashleigh. Although you can't see it, the bottom is covered in sand and seashells.

Cyra completed her first year as a Daisy Girl Scout and her troop celebrated by going to Build-A-Bear with their cookie money. Again, as with Ashleigh, I had no input with her choice. So I present for inspection Major Bear:

Major Bear is so camoflauged, I doubt that even he would notice himself!! From his uniform to his boxers to his fur, this bear get a +100 to his hide check!

And that is that...for now at least.

Cheers!