March 2006 Archives

I'm an only child. At least that's what my sister told me when I was little.

My parents met when they were in their thirties. They had both been married before, they both had kids from those marriages. Dad had 1, a girl. Mom had 3, two boys and a girl. So when they decided to get married, they probably should have taken a look around them and realized that they didn't NEED another mouth to feed.

Having me, though, was probably part of a larger plan. I was my father's last chance to have a boy that would carry on the family name. My grandfather's last chance to ensure that the family business and the family property would stay in the family. Guess I screwed that up, hunh?

Actually, my dad screwed up the property thing by marrying the stepmonster, but that's another story ...

So it would usually go like this. Dad would come home from work after his daily stop at the bar and call me out to the garage to work on his car. Or a birdhouse. Or to take the dog for a walk. Or anything that would keep him out of the house and away from my mother. Unfortunately, he never invited my mom's kids to do anything with him. He doted on me and ignored them and let me tell you, this made for some awfully nasty games of tag when I was left alone with one of them babysitting.

... when you tell a class that grades are up on a research paper and that students are free to revise and resubmit, it would be really REALLY nice if you let those students that should resubmit know just what the hell was wrong with their paper in the first place?!?!

When I get a 7 out of 10 (a C in my book, oh HELL no ...), I need to know what I did wrong. My peer review was positive and by the rubric I didn't miss any points so a 7 is baffling to me.

My grade right now is a 97 but COME ON ... this is post-post-graduate work here, people. You should know that we aren't in this for kicks, that at this level every point matters. I take these classes while working full time in my chosen field with the intention of using everything that I learn in the classroom. If I've messed up, or missed something integral to a project, I need to know what it is!

Yeah, I'm being a point junkie but this isn't a game to me. I gave up valuable time with my kids and my sweetheart to write that frackin' paper and I expect some professional courtesy.

A polite, inquisitive email has been sent ... I'm biting my tongue and frustrated beyone belief that I have to spent my last 9 credit hours with this professor. grrr ...

To top it off, I sent in my multimedia project (a movie, actually) via dropbox last week and NOW she says (in the same email) that people should email their projects via snail mail if they are having trouble getting them to her. I had no problem uploading mine ... but how am I supposed to know if she had trouble recieving it if she doesn't TELL ME!!! GAH!!!

Lord, help me get this degree so that I can go take her job in 5 years and spare others this frustration ...

If your browser has ever happened upon this page before, you probably know that I'm involved in a relationship with a guy that makes me happier than I've been in ... ever.

I didn't know that someone could accept and love me, faults and frailties, wierdness and weaknesses, history and hysteria, without judging or blaming me. I've always been told that if I just 'snapped out of it' or 'got on with my life', I would be better off but I've never been able to explain that, while some things are easy to 'snap out of', others can snap you in two. And while I would love to 'get on with my life', there are still moments when I am caught, virtually clotheslined by circumstances that make me have to stop, catch my breath, and get my feet under me again.

I've been lucky enough to find someone that understands that and that is willing to wait while I get my shit together. Though, at times, I know he wishes he could do something to make it better, I also know that he knows that's not how I want it. I've become very independant over the course of 41 years of fending for myself and, while it would have been nice to have some help along the way, I don't think that would have made me a better person. Maybe less tired or cynical, but not better, and certainly not the person that I am today.

Lest you assume by the tenor of that last post that I've softened and become someone that might actually resemble a normal person, I'm here to tell you to re-frackin'-lax.

There are some days (weeks) when a mood comes over me, when the simplest thing will set me off, when I can actually feel myself physically shutting down and all I can do is watch myself succumb. It's very nearly out-of-body and pretty creepy to watch myself in such a detached way.

Now, since Saturday, I've been recovering from a severe MSG reaction, feeling like my heart is going to burst out of my chest, hoping my head wouldn't explode. It's left me exhausted and rather numb, unable to do much more than sit back watching the irregular undulation of my moods and, frankly, feeling slightly seasick. Seems I've lost sight of the horizon.

And then I'm left hanging and it goes from bad to worse. Last thing I needed on the eve of my obsolescence.

I like to analyze things. I like to know how and why things work. I was the kid in the neighborhood that would pull apart broken bikes and record players and radios and try to fix them.

I like to find out the reason for the actions (and especially the reactions) of everything, from animal to vegetable to mineral. When I was a kid, I always thought I would grow up to be a scientist. Even when I was majoring in Theater and minoring in Art for my BA, I took on a 2nd minor of Psychology so that I could try to figure out just how my brain worked and how I could recognize when (and why) it would start short-circuiting.

I spend a lot of time in self-analysis, mostly because I'm recovering from a lifetime of damage doled out by well-meaning (but ignorant) family members and some less well-meaning toxic people I chose to have in my life. It may seem like so much navel-gazing but that's what my blogs have always been about. A way for me to record my actions (and reactions) to the people in my life to see if I can recognize a pattern.

I took a personality analysis the other day, just to assess my state of mind. What a mirror to look into.

Personality trait snapshot:
depressed, introverted, neat, needs things to be extremely clean, observer, perfectionist, not self revealing, does not make friends easily, suspicious, irritable, hates large parties, follows the rules, worrying, does not like to stand out, fragile, phobic, submissive, dislikes leadership, cautious, takes precautions, focuses on hidden motives, good at saving money, solitary, familiar with the dark side of life, hard working, emotionally sensitive, prudent, altruistic, heart over mind, unadventurous.

If you do not want to face the truth, don't look in a mirror.

A very fine shrink told me once that "You can not control the actions of everyone around you but you can control your reactions to their actions." I haven't been doing a very good job of that this week.

SO ... In honor of the first day of Spring (can I get a w00t W00T!), I'm making a resolution. I will no longer see myself through anyone else's eyes ... unless what they see is better than what I see of myself. For every time my mother makes a cutting remark about my hair looking a mess or me not losing weight, I will take a moment, take a breath, and remember how T looks at me, the feel of his hands in my hair, the strength of his arms holding me. For every time someone tries to make me feel like I am a bad parent, I will look at my kids and remind myself that they love me more than anyone else in the world ... so I can't be that bad. I will take a breath and realize where those remarks are coming from and not get caught in the razor wire tangle of emotional abuse.

"Shadows cannot see themselves in the mirror of the sun." Evita Peron

May those who love us love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May he turn their ankles,
So we'll know them by their limping.

For those of you that are not Irish, I hope you enjoyed your day. If you didn't wear green, I hope you didn't mind the pinching. If you wore orange, well, I hope you got what you deserved.

The Irish are a people of traditions and the pinching thing has always flummoxed me. It wasn't until I was working in an elementary school that I even remembered that little kids would pinch each other if they didn't wear green. It never came up with my kids because it was never an issue with them. They have always been into the silliness, except for that year when the boy insisted that he wasn't Irish, he was Egyptian, but I think that was his father trying to brainwash him. Yes, the kid is half Egyptian but he is also half ME and 100% American. But I digress ...

I think they loved it most because I always did the food up right. Corned beef & cabbage, carrots, Colcannon, homemade soda bread and, for the adults (me) a pionta Guinness or three. I made sure to slip a drop of green food coloring into the glasses they would use for their morning milk just to see their faces when I poured white milk out of the jug and it magically turned green. That was the sign that the leprechauns had visited and blessed them with good luck. Sweet how they fell for it year after year.

This year wasn't as smooth as I would have liked it. Yesterday, my mom called to find out what time we could come over for dinner today. Now, we had never planned to go over there. She didn't mention it ahead of time. The boy was planning on spending time with a friend from out of town and the girl was going to Friday night youth group with a friend. I was planning on some quiet time alone to do my homework yet suddenly she had booked my night and laced the invitation with a healthy dose of guilt.

I don’t get paid a lot for what I do. Teachers, historically underpaid everywhere but especially so in North Carolina, are often heard to say that teaching is a calling, and that is exactly what it feels like. You give up a LOT of personal freedom when you become a teacher. Just imagine, if you can, a world where everyone looks to you for model behavior, a world where you can not anonymously shop in sweats without running into at least one or two students (or even worse, PARENTS, because at least the kids will let you know they see you.). Imagine picking up a bottle of wine at the store and having one of your students see you, just after you gave the class a lesson on the dangers of drinking. Yeah, I think you get the picture.

For this loss of freedom to live like slovenly alcoholics, we should be well paid … but we aren’t. Oh, sometimes we get recognition for our hard work but competition is fierce. Every teacher that has some success in her career has 10 behind her, hoping she fails. When I got Teacher of the Year, a few teachers (that wer ealso in the running, I might add) didn’t talk to me for weeks because they didn’t think I deserved it.

Whatever. I got TOTY, what of it? I have a nice shiny plaque in my living room to remind me that I had fewer enemies than anyone else at my school. I had a bad picture of me in the local newspaper. Footage of me accepting my plaque is still playing on the local free access channel, at least until the next TOTY luncheon. Big whoop.

Last November, I went to Intel training so that I could teach others to use the Intel tools. I spent 40 hours out of town to get the title of Master Teacher and a certificate … oh and I had to recruit teachers that I would train within a year.

In February, I held a workshop for the other media coordinators in my county to show them how to use the tools. I know not everyone was happy that I was teaching the group. How did I get chosen, after all? I am just a media coordinator like them, and a new one at that.

I’ll tell you how. Hard freakin’ work. And it just paid off.

No, I didn’t get a raise.

No, I didn’t get a new job.

BUT … I got an email this morning saying that Intel had chosen the winners of the spring laptop drawing. Out of all the Master Teachers that held training in the first quarter of 2006, they are giving away laptops to two Master Teachers. One lady in Mississippi and me.

Yup. I won a laptop.

This doesn’t happen to me. I don’t win things. I don’t have nice things. I don’t deserve this.

But maybe I do. I have worked hard this year. Maybe good things do come to good people. Maybe this is my pot of gold.

I get the feeling I’m not done yet.

(on the title: An Irish proverb that I thought applied pretty well.)

My favorite monkey has decided that this will be the year that he catches up on the Classics, books that everyone knows about but few people really read unless they are forced to. I've always been a fan of knowing what I'm talking about. When a discussion about a good book comes up and I feel I have nothing to contribute, I go read that book so I can join in.

While I have read more "Classics" than he has, much of my reading was during my theater days. I had these HUGE Norton Anthologies, one of plays, one of literature and one of poetry and I just devoured them.

That was a long time ago, though. I have gone through a lifetime since then. It's time to read for pleasure again.

I just finished the Otherland series (Tad Williams) and am working on some of Terry Pratchett's Discworld books and Douglas Adams' Salmon of Doubt right now ... oh, and taking 2 classes ... so my time to dedicate to this is not exactly what I wish it could be. I'll probably read books as he finishes them and I have several to contribute on my bookshelf.

I will join with him full force once these classes end. I just have an internship this summer and one class in the fall so I will be looking for something to keep me busy. He's just the monkey to do it.

Home after a most excellent weekend, unable to sleep. Not exactly sure why since I only got about 4 hours of sleep before waking up at 6 to watch the F1 season opener from Bahrain this morning (they couldn't have it in a later time zone???), had half a pot of coffee and an AMAZING breakfast cooked by T's dad, then went to church until noon, finished off the pot, had a FAB lunch cooked by T's mom (killer. chocolate. pie.) then took about a 45 minute nap (sweet downtime) before having to drive 3 hours home. I actually was tired earlier so I climbed in bed at about 9 to watch TV for a few hours but I woke up at 1 WIDE AWAKE. My system is all out of whack right now so I figured I might burn off some of the excess energy babbling on about the weekend until I either fall out of my chair or my alarm goes off.

I think I know the problem, though. As soon as everything gets quiet, all I hear is a ringing in my ears. Yes, I have a concert hangover.

When I painted for a living, I would get epiphanies while I worked and have to stop to write them down before I forgot them, like writing down a dream in the moment of waking before the reality of the day sets in. Sometimes, I actually wrote them on the wall with the paintbrush so I wouldn't have to stop working, then work the letters into the design later after I had written them down on actual paper. For a long time there, when I walked through my life like a zombie but my writing was going well, I had to keep a pad of paper and a pen with me everywhere I went because the ideas would flow like so much water. Many times, I would have to pull off the side of the road to write snippets down, sometimes 5 or 6 times in a 10 mile drive to town. There is something about doing mindless, repetitive movement that frees the mind to concentrate on the larger consciousness.

So there I was at work today, organizing the Science MAnipulatives room in relative quiet, and I let my mind wander. It's been a while since I have done this, since I don't have many moments of relative quiet anymore, so I wasn't really thinking of anything specific, which is the perfect environment for my best ideas to grow in. I curled my fingers around an idea and formulated a really good sentence and thought "Boy, that would make a great blog post."

The only problem is, I forgot just how sieve-like my brain is now and, a minute or two later, someone came into my office asking me questions and by the time they left, I had almost (but not quite) forgotten that I had even had an idea.

The worst thing is that I remember that I had a great idea ... I just don't remember what it was.

Frackin' torture, I tell you.

Oh well, I'll go do dishes and it'll come back ... and by the time I dry my hands and get back here, it'll be gone again. I wish I could say this is a sign of genius but I'm afraid it's just age.

UPDATE :: GAH!!! Just remembered what it was, something about my children and what they have missed over the past 6 or 7 or 8 years. Brought on by a discussion the other night about them getting to do things they don't often do. How I feel as though, while doing the right thing, I haven't done enough. There, my note for later. *whew* Now I can go to work and not worry that it would hit me in the middle of my 1st grade class.

Mokey- The artist
Graceful, thoughtful, and endlessly helpful. Loves to sing, paint, and sometimes even dance.

Hmmm .... how do it know?!?!?!