CrossFit

As I move through the challenges of being displaced since September because my porch caught on fire and trying to teach the post-COVID, GenZ generation, I decided I needed to add a wee-bit more Hell to my life: I started doing CrossFit.

Why CrossFit? Why not, ya know, taking short walks? Chair Yoga? Wall Pilates? Why not self-flagelation?

Because I've got a lot of aggression to burn off (see first paragraph), and my sister has been doing CrossFit for years. She is a badass that competes. The first time I saw her compete I was blown away by what she could do. I filmed her climbing ropes and thrusting barbells while my nephew sat in my lap and played with my arm fat. 

When you are the sister of Kelli Olsen at Mutiny CrossFit, it elevates you to a certain celebrity status, which is cool. But, it also probably created some expectations that I immediately had to lower.  As Kelli introduced me to the coaches and the regulars, I made sure to add, "I haven't worked out in years."

Which is true. I've been a runner, a gym rat, and a yogi, but I haven't had a consistent exercise routine in like forever. So, I toddle behind my sister hoping the ether of her awesomeness will detract from the shitshow I'm bringin'.  But hey, I wear cute leggings and tank-tops with witty little quips about exercising on them.  As long as I look good, everything will be fine.

Unfortunately, at the end of a class, good is not how I look.

Most of the time I stand in front of the workout board, pointing at the list of exercises and saying, "What is that?" and "We are gonna have to scale that shit back."

And the coaches do scale and modify so I don't die. And I've only died twice over the course of 18 classes.  And I have never been so overwhelmed by testosterone that I've left with a Y chromosome and hair on my chest. 

I do Deadlifts and Sumo Deadlifts.  I do Push Pulls and Push Press. I'm sure there is a Push Drop; I just haven't learn it yet. I do sit-ups and Burpees; no, there are no Fartees. I'm Clean and Hang Clean. I row; I bike: I ski. I do all of the squats: Overhead Squat, Squat Jerk, and Air Squat.  I Climb Mountains and Bear Crawl. I Swing Kettlebells and throw Wall Balls.

Snatches can fuck off. 

I do all the exercises, but I never claimed to do them well. The coaches encourage me to complete the WOD, but mostly I DNF.  I am the weakest and the slowest no matter which class I attend: a woman who has 20 years on me kicks my ass; my fellow middle-agers kick my ass; a crossfitter's kid, who I guess to be around 5 years old, kicks my ass. 

If the 20 and 30-somethings don't kick my ass, that kills their street cred and only elevates mine.  

So why do I do it? Because I am too old for illicit drugs and look much better with an adrenaline rush than. I do it for the eye-candy: the men are healthy and fit and handsome. And they are always smiling. And the women? Gorgeous, powerful, and in command of their own strength. Now, their leggings aren't always as cute as mine, but their confidence makes that moot.

But, Snatches can still fuck off.

And the icing on the cake: some crossfitters bring their dogs!

All jokes aside, don't be intimidated by CrossFit. My sister says it is for anyone and I agree. No matter what I can or cannot do, they always tell me "great job." The guy who dead-lifted 300 lbs while I dead-lifted the bar (and the beginner's bar at that) gives me fist-bumps at the end of the workout. 

Competitions are more like a family event than a ruthless grapple to be considered the best. Athletes encourage and celebrate each other. And, did I mention the eye candy? 

Finally, I do CrossFit because my pants do fit better. I do feel stronger. Ironically, I am polishing up this post after returning from a yoga class where I could enjoy the benefits of my new strength. 

Honestly vanity is the smallest reason I do it, even though I do look pretty good in my cute leggings. 

I Need a Young Priest and an Old Priest

The recent releases of The Nun II, The Exorcist Believer, and even Friday Night at Freddy's attempt to provide audiences glimpses into horrific events that both keep us up at night as well as provide that little adrenaline rush. 

Bitch, please. I got plenty of horror in my life minus the adrenaline rush.

Recently, I was whining about having bronchitis, followed by a painful surgery, then frosted with a spin with COVID (which I didn't recover from until Day 1 of a new school year). I need get into a time machine, go back to the summer, look at myself and say "Bitch, please" because right now I might need a young priest and an old priest to ride the current wave of shit. 

I recovered from COVID and stumbled through the new school year. Then, once I thought I had regrouped, my porch caught fire.

I am not going to go into detail on how my porch caught fire. All I can say it was not my fault and not a freak accident. Accident? Yes. But a stupid one.

Fortunately, I wasn't there because I had vacated with my cats while my hard-wood floors were being sanded and stained. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the damage to my place is minimal. Unfortunately, there is enough damage to displace me for . . . well . . . who knows. So, I have to live with my mom for a while. 

Living with Mom is fine; we have a great relationship. We travel together and rarely, if ever, fight. In her house, I have a bedroom and a newly remodeled bathroom all to myself. The house is big enough for us to have our own space. And there's a television in my room! As a kid / teen Mom wouldn't let me have a television in my room, so I feel a little smug having one in her house now. My sister and nephews are down the street. Mom lives about 45 minutes from Long Beach, but it is a nice, suburban area. The commute to work is the same as from home. No, my temporary "housing" is not the problem.

I am the problem.

When I pulled into Mom's driveway with a carload of what I needed to live there for a while, she said, "Your car is making a funny noise." Not a week later, a service engine light came on for which I could find no meaning for, even when I googled it. (Don't even start talking to me about looking in the car manual. I mean, it is 2023.) I take my car in: three grand to fix it. 

Clearly, the universe has decided that I didn't sustain enough damage in my life as a result of the fire. Glad to contribute to the karmic balance, I guess.

I bought a brand of flavored water I'd never had before, it tasted like ass, so I poured it down the white bathroom sink. Whatever lab experiment flavored the water, stained the newly installed sink.  There is now a smattering of greenish dots running down to her drain. It might have been cool, festive even, if my flavored water had been cherry or strawberry flavored, but instead of looking like blood splatter, the sink looks like it has nuclear waste splatter. 

Sorry Mom.

I mean, I do feel bad. But at least she has a bathroom sink. Hell, she has two. Currently, I have zero. 

One day when I got home from work, Mom told me to go into her office and see if I noticed anything wrong. I should have walked back out the front door and gone back to work. I went into the office, which is right next to her guest, now my, bathroom and thought that somehow between the kitchen and the office I had gotten drunk. Or all those drugs I did in high school decided to stop by and say "hi." The floor of the office seemed warped as if the laminate floor was flowing. It wasn't flowing; it was bowing. 

Mom told me there must be a leak from the bathroom I'm using that is running into the office. The next day, she had the bowing part of the floor ripped up and found water. A lot of water. So, the entire floor was torn up and it appears a pond had been forming, courtesy of moi and the increase water drainage in the guest bathroom.

I suggested we throw in a coy fish and name it Duane. We might make it on the Home and Garden Channel. 

After further investigation, a plumber found a crack in the molding in the shower. Water had been leaking from behind the wall into the office for a month. Her newly remodeled bathroom shower will probably have to be ripped out and the wall aired out. 

Oh, and the floor that needs replacing in her office? It has been discontinued. 

She calls me The One Woman Wrecking Ball, but I think that is an understatement.

I figured it out; I need an exorcism. I mean so far, I've brought fire and flood. Mom asked me if I thought I might have been Attila the Hun in my past life, but I just don't think I've had that level of commitment in any life. Honestly, I think I am the second coming . . . of Satan.

Or would it be the first coming? My Biblical knowledge is limited. Nevertheless, I think I need an exorcism.  All this is happening during the media hype and release of the sequel to The Exorcist. Coincidence? 

While my car was being repaired, I borrowed Mom's car for a trip to a town outside of Fresno. Trust me, I had some trepidation, but I had promised my school's cross country team I'd chaperone a race up in Clovis which is near Fresno. I made a point to touch as few buttons necessary in the car and drive with my hands at the 10 and 2 o'clock position. I even used the navigation on my phone instead of the one in her car. When I got back, the electrical system that controls her navigation, radio, and phone connection had fried. 

Three days ago, when I got home from work, I noticed the lawn beneath my window was dug up and surrounded by caution tape. I should have backed out.

Turns out, while the plumber was testing for any additional links in the bathroom plumbing, he discovered that the septic system has "several hairline fractures." The wave of shit imagery I lead with in this post has become literal. 

So, two successful, affluent grown women might be sharing a bathroom and a bedroom. Honestly, Mom will make me pitch a tent in the backyard before sharing a bed with me. And I'm not sure I blame her. Trust me, if there was a way for me to get away from myself, I would have done so a long time ago. 

I ran my exorcism theory by a co-worker. Between the war in Ukraine and the devastation in the Gaza strip, he saw the logic in my theory. He did make a request: if I am bringing the end-of-days, can I give him time to get through his bucket list?

Well, sure. I mean right now, I'm just tearing down mine and mom's house; it might take a while for me to tear down the world. But I am going to do it one toilet and car at a time.

All I know is that my mom makes the cross out of her fingers when I walk in the front door and my sister has not invited me over. 

And an interesting factoid to leave y'all with: if I had been born a boy, my parents planned to name me Damien. I shit you not. Quite the omen.

I Need a Nap . . . Forever

As mentioned in earlier posts, I turned 50 last year and am fast approaching 51, and just like that, I should be considering moving to Miami, Florida. Unfortunately, I do not look as good as the ladies from Sex and the City and I am definitely not as cool as The Golden Girls.

I hate everything about being 50. I hate the stigmatism of being "middle age"; I hate my sore knees and back; I hate my wrinkles; I really hate that muumuus and lounge dresses are more appealing than dark jeans and sequenced tops.

I remember in college I could do a dozen things a day on 6 hours of sleep: attend class, work full time, exercise and even maintain a social life. When I started teaching, I was still finishing my credential. So my day became working in the morning, working out in the afternoon, and then going to class 3 nights a week. I wrote a hundred-page thesis when I was 30, teaching full time, and starting a new relationship. I didn't work out as regularly, but exercise was still a part of my life until I broke up with both the relationship and significant physical movement when I was staring down the barrel of turning 40.

I know its been a tortoise / hair race between my body and my mind toward, ya know, death, but I can't figure out which is which, and even then, which is winning.

Somewhere in my mid 40s, I realized that if I want to do two things in one day, I need a nap in-between or bookend my "busy" day with 8-10 hours of sleep. Run an errand, or god help me, exercise after work? In bed by 8 p.m. Dinner with a friend after work? Nap in-between. Clean on a Saturday morning and then socialize Saturday night? Nap. Have one of my nephews overnight and then do anything afterward? Major nap.

Day-drinking has taken on an entire new significance now that I'm fucking middle-aged. My party starts at noon, and either is broken up with a nap or ends at 6 p.m. I need a minimum of 3 days to sober up and sleep it off.

So it proves to be a challenge when one's feeble attempt to reclaim her youth includes going to as many heavy metal concerts as possible. Honestly, if I want to reclaim my youth I can go out and make staggeringly bad relationship choices and then crash my car.

Most recently, my sister and I saw Godsmack on a Thursday night and I had to go to work the next day because it was the second week of school. In addition, I was supposed to be having my nephews for a sleepover. Now, I don't take both nephews at once; there aren't enough naps in the world to prep me for that. If I want to enjoy myself, I only take one at a time for one night. So it might be Jay on Friday night, then I swap for Blake on Saturday, then take Blake home Sunday, take a 2 hours nap, and spend the rest of the day readjusting my apartment and my brain.

But, when my sister and sister and I were working out what we call kid schlepping details, I didn't realize that all three events were back-to-back. I only realized it after I started updating my Google calendar. Once I realized my scheduling impossibility, I went storming into her office and nearly screamed: "I cannot have a kid the two nights after a concert!"

My sister looked up from her planner, filled with writing and post-it-notes. Her computer is flashing and beeping in the background. Her half-cast eyes show exhaustion; her slack jaw shows confusion. Or exhaustion. Or both. My sister has two kids every night of her life: one kid is heavily into sports, and she is very conscious of giving the kid not in sports as much of her time and attention as the other.

I held up my hands to stop any other comment from her and said, "I'll die. I mean, it's the first week of school."

My sister's profession includes the title of "director." The only directing I do is of teenage fuckery. My sister hosts seminars, zoom meetings with a dozen people who also have impressive titles including terms like "regional," "statewide," and "national." I have talks with adolescents about why they shouldn't have their earbuds in while I am teaching, even if "they are turned off." My sister holds workshops and seminars for people with PhDs. I teach how to capitalize the personal pronoun "I" to a class of gangling teens who are literally sweating hormones.

My sister flips back to August in her planner, propped her elbow and dropped her head into her hands and said, "Okay . . ."

We worked it out so that I wouldn't die. And a big shout-out to my baby sis who probably could use a nap, but still manages to function, and function well, without one.

Me? I had to take a nap after the near fatal scheduling mistake I nearly made.

COVID Woes

I promise: Genres of My Life will not turn into my personal diary full of narcissistic whining about things that really aren't that bad. But, for now, I am just slinging up anything that may have one good sentence in it (aka, gaining traction). 

But, when one gets COVID and is in forced reclusion, there is very little to post about. Narcissistic Whining must be a genre; if not, the linguistic community needs to get that shit canonized before "bruh" is. 

I'm not going to complain about how awful I feel. Because I have a fantastic immune system, my symptoms are minimal. My two BFFs, whom I gave it to, not so much. They are such good friends that they took on the more than their share of COVID pie. 💖you ladies!

No, my bone to pick with the universe is not that I have COVID, but it is because of when I have COVID.

My rah-rah teacher day is Monday and I have students on Wednesday. As you read this, I should be in my classroom doing my contract-anointed "float day," but I can't get within 10 miles of campus. I have not been in my classroom since they waxed the floors. If you are a teacher, no other explanation is needed; the collective gasp can be heard around the world. 

For those who don't fall under the educator umbrella, what that means I have to plug in everything (and in a classroom, plugging into the Matrix in no easy task), clean up my decorations (there has been a mad game of Tic Tack Toe going on the construction paper that lines my back wall), and xerox . . . something (digital age or not, GenX teachers don't feel they are ready for a new school year until they photo-copy for at least an hour). 

Being 26 years into my career, I can roll in and throw down some bullshit for a couple days (if any of my administrators are reading this . . . deliver pre-planned, relevant and rigorous lessons that build relationships). Nevertheless, I was going to prepare for the new year for 2-3 long days in my classroom before the year started. Roost around a little bit: clean some shelves, organize my teaching library by genre, organize some desk drawers, put up the posters I never got around to putting up last summer, transfer my 20 meeting invites from my inbox to my new bougie planner that I'll use for a month. Reline the back wall with clean construction paper for the 2023-24 Tic Tack Toe season. Xerox . . . something.

Nope, no roosting, nesting, settling, pulling-shit-together for me. I'm behind before anything has even started. 

But hey, COVID didn't leave me totally hangin'. According to isolation and return-to-work instructions, it is safe for me to return to work just in time for rah-rah teacher day. Great! Can't get my room ready, but I'll be front and center for all those welcome back meetings.  

COVID,🖕.

(Hey, let me know where the good sentence was. The narcissistic whining I can find easily enough.)

Professional Development

I never have, nor ever will, manage my money to get by in the summer. Even with my district managing the academic calendar so that teachers get paid 11 months out of 12 (rather than the traditional 10 months), I still stress out in August as I watch my balance shrink and my bills remain robust.

Meh, fiscal responsibility is for wimps. 

Instead, I do a lot of professional development to earn some extra cash. Pay me, I'll do it. I'll workshop the shit out of any teaching technique you want. I'll learn how to teach math, science, underwater basket weaving . . . whatever. Attend trainings for online teaching programs that I'll never use during the school year? Done. (If any of my principals are reading this, I PD in the summer to grow and hone my skills as a teacher. And those online education platforms? Love them 😍)   

Of course you are all probably snickering as you think "She can pole dance" but then I must remind you that one of my new themes for the blog is that I'm fucking 50. I need to earn money not go to jail. 

Regardless, I do try to go into teaching workshops and the like with an auspicious attitude. Even if I don't learn something new, it helps refresh best practices that I might have left by the wayside. Sometimes, they reinforce that I am doing a couple things right.

In July, I virtually attended my first AVID training. AVID stands for Advancement Via Individual Determination. The program seeks to provide disadvantaged students access to resources and rigor to "close the gap" in their learning. It is basically moving through a series of teaching techniques that provide students success with reading difficult texts and writing cohesively. 

How's that paragraph for sounding professional? Well, the development stops there.

Like a good conference attendee, I did all my prework the night before: I watched the tutorial to learn how to use the meeting platform; I tested my technology so that everything would work the next day.

Ya, that last one: as if. 

So, I wake up Monday morning with enough time to make myself camera presentable, brew some coffee and enjoy a few quiet moments waiting for all neurons to start firing-- or at least a couple neurons. But of course, the moment I sit down at my desk and turn on my computer to join the training, I realize my internet is not working. No idea why. It was working 12 hours previous and I hadn't done anything online since my technology check. But, if anyone can jack-up her technology without even being on said technology, it's me.

I restart my computer. I restart my modem. No internet. Both seem to be powered up and there are no alarming red lights flashing. I turn off my power strip to hard restart everything in my office. Still, the computer telling me it cannot find any available wireless connections. I am close to restarting my entire apartment by throwing the breaker. Unfortunately, being "camera ready" does not mean I should actually leave the house. 

I say the f-word a lot. 

Turns out the problem is with my desktop, but I don't have time figure it out. It's 10 minutes to go time and I need a minimum of 2 hours to fix my tech. So I grab my laptop, which isn't charged. To be comfortable, it would be better to sit in a my large, loungy-like chair called a "cuddler" but I have to crawl over the back to reach the electrical socket. I plug in my laptop, grab my coffee and put it on the C-table, then settle myself in. I secure a bolster pillow under my knees, put my lap desk in place. Of course, as I grab my laptop, the power cord hooks my coffee cup and sends my survival juice sailing across the room and my auspicious mood out the window.

More f-words. Climbing out of my gauntlet of comfort, I throw a few pillows across the room, refresh my coffee.

I am now officially late. I regroup: add some Bailey's to the coffee, snuggled back up in my chair. Prep the lap desk and laptop so that it won't tangle on anything when I move it. Place the coffee on the table. Make the sign of the cross, bow to the east, sacrifice a couple chickens. I crawl back into my cuddler, get myself all wedged and propped, and log on in time just as the welcoming message is ending. 

Next time, I'm not checking shit before an online training. I'm just gonna roll out of bed 10 minutes before and log on late. 

Thank You for Returning

I struggled with how to title this post. I've already done the "I'm Back" in 2018 when I intended to post regularly. Turns out that didn't happen.

My posting streak seems to have ended about 10 years ago. Since then, I've thrown up a dozen "meh" posts. 

So, what happened? I don't know. My blogging silence wasn't because I was building a legacy: didn't write any new novels, didn't get any works published, didn't get married, didn't have kids, and didn't become a teaching guru. 

But what did happen was I lost my dad, an aunt and an uncle, and both grandmothers. I gained 2 nephews. I wrote very little and taught a lot.

Oh, then there was COVID.

I realize I'm not the only one who has been assaulted with change, who are looking back over the last 5-10 years and thinking: what the fuck did I accomplish? Why I am so fucking tired? 

Why return to blogging now? Still, no answers. Maybe I need to reflect on all the shit I didn't accomplish in my 40s now that I am 50. Maybe I need cheap therapy. Or maybe someone reading this will think: "Thank the goddess I'm not the only one." Even better: "Wow, this bitch is a mess; I feel much better about myself." I can be the guru of bad decisions and train wrecks. Hell, I might already be.

In my usual, hopefully more sophisticated, sarcastic voice, I will be posting on themes of the past: teaching, language / slang, my ongoing battle with technology, the enigma of teenage behavior (formally known as "To Quote My Grandmother: Why Are Teenagers so Stupid?") In addition, I hope to write about being an auntie, being fucking 50 years old, and maybe . . . maybe dating.

The Cheap Way to Sleep: Me

When my two best friends and I travel together, sharing a hotel room can be a challenge. Over the years, we've worked out a system for getting ready so that we have all the bathroom time we need to get pretty in a timely manner: Cher needs at least two hours to move through her very thorough and meticulous regiment: Lisa needs less time, but still adheres to a formula to produce her beauty, so she gets to shower second. Me? I can slap myself together in forty minutes, because well, I give far less of a shit what I look like than the other two.

What we haven't worked out is compromising on the sleeping atmosphere. Arrangement, we've got down: we reserve a two-bed room and one of us brings and aerobed. What we can't seem to get a handle on are setting the perfect conditions for each of us to get a good night's rest.

I need absolute darkness and silence in order to wind down; both of my BFFs need the noise and the light of the television. Because I'm out-numbered, I  have to lump it. We've tried shoving me in dark corners or angling the television screen away from me; nevertheless, I usually spend the night dozing on and off. (Trust me, when I win the lottery, marry rich, or start making money off this damn blog, I'll be reserving my own room.)

On one occasion I stood my ground and demanded they set the television on a timer so that I could enjoy some peace and quiet. They acquiesced by setting the timer for six fucking hours. I meant for it to be set for maybe two hours to give them enough time to go to sleep and leave me the dark and quiet I need to stay asleep.

I woke up at 4 a.m., the damn television still on: the Pavlovian gong of Law and Order echoing throughout the room. I lie there watching the stupid episode--one I'd seen around 25 times-- until I finally snatched up the remote and turned Jack McCoy's indigence off. Instantly, Cher and Lisa both shot up in bed like mummies or vampires rigged to pop out of a coffin in a haunted house. I swear their hands were formed like claws, and they bared their teeth at me.

I invited McCoy back into our bedroom.

Getting a good night's rest is a challenge for most everyone; in fact, according to American Sleep Association (ASA), between 30-40% of adults struggle with sleeping. The ASA suggests adults get 7-9 hours of sleep. If a "children's" book called Go the Fuck to Sleep by Gilbert Mansbach and Ricardo Cortes gets nearly a five-star rating on Amazon and entices Samuel L. Jackson and Morgan Freeman to do a dramatic reading, feeling rested is a rarity. 

We all have certain conditions for getting a good-night sleep. Regardless of over-booked and over-stressed lives that should guarantee at the end of the day, many still fight insomnia. Our bodies in hyper-drive in order to plow through our long days, our brains full of worries and our eyes staring at screens for . . . well . . . every bloody minute of the day make it difficult to wind down, drift into a peaceful sleep, and stay in it until the alarm goes off. 

There are sleep therapists, drugs, and apps to help, but my advice is much, much cheaper and less addictive.

There are many things I'm willing to compromise and/or give up: vegetables, overtime, making my bed, but I will not deprive myself of sleep.  No matter what, I will get my 7-9 hours a night. Hell, I've hosted parties where I have gone to bed and left my guests to fend for themselves. 

How do I do it? Well, I don't have kids, which I'll admit helps. Even without them, I do have a full-time and a part-time job, a commute, food to prepare, laundry to do, an apartment to clean, errands to run, and a desire to keep up some semblance of a social life.  Believe me, turning off my brain is no easy task. And I can stare at a screen as much as the next person. So, I developed a routine that guarantees a good night's rest. I've shared my approach with colleagues, friends and family, of which one told me I needed to blog about my recipe because she found it so effective.

I use Blue Light Filter

First, and I know this suggestion will sound sacrilegious, make sure to filter out all the blue-light from your devices--phones, tablets, computers--at around 8 p.m. There are a lot of apps that allow you to set a timer so it happens automatically. Of course it detracts from the vividness of graphics, but it is those graphics that convince your brain to stay awake.

About and hour before I hope to be asleep, I turn my television to a show I've seen many times and is formulaic so it doesn't require require my full attention. The mere sound of the characters' voices, theme song or score acts as a signal to my brain it is time to disengage.  I am partial to Forensic Files, but if blood spatter analysis and mitochondria DNA doesn't lull you to sleep, then I suggest  Law and Order or NCIS.  I only watch shows involving murder, so my suggestions are limited. Again, the key is formulaic and repetitive. You don't necessarily want to sit and watch it, but more listen to it while you prepare for bed.

I shower at night, so the warm water relaxes me. I take my time drying off, apply a myriad of lotions to lift, tighten while also plumping aging parts of my face and then I slather lotion on the rest of me and hope for the best. While waiting for one layer of lotion to sink in before slapper on another, I'll do some very easy stretching: touching my toes, raising my arms over my head and bending side to side, throw in a nice and easy sun-salutation or two. I am nowhere near breaking a sweat, but I am working out some tension, nice an easy.

Scent is critical to my relaxation. Lavender will always do the trick: use lavender scented body wash, lavender scented body lotion, and then to top (or bottom) it all off, put some lavender oil on the bottom of your feet. Trust me on the foot thing--it is magic.

Once you climb into bed, take a few minute to mentally put all your stresses away.  What I do is turn any taxing thought into a photo and then visualize myself putting that picture into a box. Once I've "put away" all my stress, I place a lid on the box and put it away (slide it under my bed, tuck into my closet, or throw it out my bedroom window). I might have to repeat this visualization a few times depending on what is going on in my life at the time.

For those of you who need sound to sleep, instead of leaving the television on, stream soothing music or nature sounds. I play rain sounds throughout the night. If you must have the dialogue of a television show, wear a sleep mask so the light doesn't keep your brain stimulated (and yes, this happens even when eyes are closed). Lisa used to leave Criminal Minds on all night until her boyfriend told her the sound of screaming women being murdered was interrupting his REM cycle. As much as I would like Derek Morgan in my bedroom, no matter what form, he will keep me awake.

Many don't have the luxury of fitting in an hour's worth of sleep-prep, so these steps can definitely be moved through more quickly.

Now, go the fuck to sleep.

Know Who You're Wearing

As I strolled across the high school campus this morning, I saw a young man sitting on a brick border surrounding a raised planter, wearing a Metallica Master of Puppets sweatshirt while listening to The Smiths. It was a time-warp, culture clash I was not expecting and only mildly prepared for.

Did this student not understand the gravity of his cultural misstep by conjoining the metal of Metallica with the ah-ah-ah-ah of The Smiths? In public? Is there no respect for the 80's?  At least those of us who lived them showed proper reverence by wearing fluorescent clothing, ripping open the ozone with hairspray, and snorting cocaine.

Did this student not understand that those who listen to The Smiths want to cut themselves while those who listen to Metallica want to cut others? Sometimes, choices must be made. Some boundaries are for the betterment of culture, of character, of sanity. Little did the heavy-metal-wearing, pop- listening teen know that he was plummeting into an identity crisis. Kids today think they can just disregard the constructs of fashion and music genres, mixing them into a hodgepodge of expression without consequence. The nerve.

To give the student the benefit of the doubt, I reminded myself that he may not even know who Metallica is. Over the summer I learned T-shirts and sweatshirts featuring rock bands from the 80's is a fashion trend with no relevant connection to the music itself.

When I first noted students wearing Guns n' Roses Appetite for Destruction, Metallica Ride the Lightning, and Def Leppard Pyromania T-shirts, I thought they had raided their parents' closets, unearthed a piece of nostalgia prompting them to share the glory of their concert days, maybe even played a little "Welcome to the Jungle," "Fade to Black," and "Rock of Ages," and their children--being so impressed by the rock music of their antecedents, wore their parents' rock shirts to school and sparked a fashion revolution.

Nope.

While working in a writing center at Rio Hondo JC this summer, I asked a student who wore a Def Leppard Pyromania T-shirt if her parents had listened to the band.  My first concert was Def Leppard's Hysteria tour and I had Joe Elliot's face plastered all over my bedroom walls (after taking down Simon LeBon and John Taylor).

Her response was a shrug.

Can be found on Amazon

"Do you know who that band is?" I had asked, pointing the glass building aflame on her chest. She shook her head.

I am slowly accepting the music of my youth is now played on Classic Rock stations. When Neil Diamond was demoted to Easy Listening it quite dismayed my parents. I might have scoffed at the idea of Elvis Presley being The King of Rock, but if I had gone vintage and worn a Rolling Stones or Janis Joplin shirt, I would have at least known who the fuck they were. Hell, I could have busted out a few lines from "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" and "Cry Baby." And Neil Diamond? I could have karaoked the shit out "Sweet Caroline," "Forever in Blue Jeans," and "Love on the Rocks."

It's bad enough I have to endure Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" in a Honda Pilot commercial, Aerosmith's "Dream On" in a goddamn Buick Lacrosse commercial, and Guns n' Roses'  "Paradise City" in the background of Jersey Mikes, but now I have to watch the emblems of my rowdy youth become a meaningless decoration?

I don't know how Def Leppard, Metallica, and Guns N' Roses ended up on the racks of Target and Hot Topic, as well as the warehouses of Amazon, but can merchants please include a free download of the band's biggest hits? And can parents today do as my parents did before we had such efficient, high-tech ways of channeling music into one set of ears by telling that bitch Alexa to blast Heavy Metal of the 80's (okay, and 90's). Or go hardcore and confiscate all earbuds, duck-tape the kids to kitchen chairs, pull out the boom-box and CD collection and give them some music history.

And if my rock gods of old have to sell the rights of their songs to car manufacturers, can y'all stick with Porsche, Aston Martin, and (perfectly) Corvette? 

The iGeneration Putting the "i" in Irony

I might be the Hercule Poirot of language: I've solved they mystery of why students don't capitalize the personal pronoun I.

At first, I just blamed it on technology (my go-to scapegoat along with the weather and GMOs for all ills in society). Teens socialize primarily through text, Twitter and Snapchat thereby practice and perfect the incorrect grammar teachers spend their careers trying to undo. Regardless of how much we badger them about capitalizing their personal pronoun I, they refuse to do so.

The most obvious explanation seemed to be laziness because it's not a difficult rule to remember. I suppose it is a bit taxing to stretch that pinky finger all the way over to the shift key and hit it at the same time as the 'I' key: I mean, why hit two keys when one will do?

Recently, that theory was called into question when I found several hand-written assignments littered with lower case, personal pronoun 'I's; but as with typing, it takes a little more extra effort  to make one vertical and two horizontal lines versus just having one vertical line and a dot.

I further tested these theories by berating students on their laziness; you know, trying to shame them into writing correctly.  How are they going to succeed in school, hold down a job, building healthy, lasting relationships if they can't even capitalize their fucking 'I's? Surprisingly, their English teacher's opinion meant nothing to them.

Ready to settle on the theory that teenage rebellion demands they don't do one single thing they are asked to do without a fight; it is a trait of adolescence generations of adults have been unable to eradicate.  Still, it seemed too paradoxical: why wouldn't teenagers, especially Millennials, use every tool they had to assert their individuality? To assert their ego? Aren't they self-absorbed, coddled, entitled, and solitary behind their electronic devices?

Like most people, the answer came to me while I was in the shower: Millennials are also the iGeneration, they don't need they don't need to capitalize their 'I's because the internet provides so many other venues to promote their individuality in more engaging, entertaining, far-reaching ways. They can track how many people follow them doing ordinary shit. They can snap, tweet, post, share, filter, and, well, blog. Capitalized pronouns are becoming as necessary as landlines.

To be fair, pronouns have always catered to the ego. Grammar rules that "I" must capitalize myself as the writer in order to assert my ideas, opinions, actions over any other person I might be writing about. When composing my spectacular posts, I don't introduce my voice with "I, Holly Vance" and then shift to "believe i have solved the riddle of how teenagers think (if i had, i'd be in such high demand for consultation i wouldn't have time to blog). Sure, I will capitalized the names of others, but after an initial introduction, grammar rules that I should refer to others as he/she him/her they/them--not capitalized. Capitalization means specific, unique, and important; but to be grammatically correct, I shouldn't capitalize "she" when substituted for Lisa, Cher, Laura, Karen, Mindi, and Carrie even though each woman is specific, unique, and important. 

The generation who exist in a digital extension of their egos, the generation capable of asserting their "I" in so many ways, refuse resort to a archaic, symbol of the ego: the capitalized "I". It is ironic, but also isn't it expected for teenagers to carve out a way to be different, to not do things the way their predecessors did? Maybe I needed to capitalize "I" because I didn't have any other way to do so.

Or Apple started this whole problem with their iPhone, iMac, iPod, iWatch, iBrain. Like I mentioned earlier, damn technology ruins everything.

Finesse My Seat, Not My Hair

Tweens and teens of the 70's and early 80's wanted only one thing:  to look like Charlie's Angels (well, and marry one of the Dukes of Hazard or Hardy Boys). 
Every girl wanted to have that straight glossy hair with the sides feathered back: wings of beauty hardened by Aqua Net.

Being in junior high school during this fashion trend, my frizzy, curly, sky-scraper-defying hair only added to the trauma of those years. Straightening, let alone adding a wispy flip, was impossible. And since my most loathsome chore was ironing my dad's clothes, I sure as shit was not going to iron my hair. 

Finesse Shampoo and Conditioner was my last hope to be trendy and cool. It advertised the end of frizz and the beginning of soft manageable hair.

It didn't work as well as I hoped. It tamed my afro a bit, but not enough to impress Charlie. I just had to wait it out until the later 80's when it was fashionable to for a girl to look like she stuck finger into a light socket.

It wasn't until last year when a freshman brought the word "finesse" back into my life. This will give those who know me pause because in my 21 years of teaching I have NEVER taught freshmen, and it is best that I NEVER do teach freshmen. The problem is definitely me not them. I am not emotionally, mentally, hell or even physically equipped to be in the same room with more than say two at a time. They have no control over their bodies, they don't get my sarcasm, and they don't respond well to my "suck it up" and "stop complaining" method of compassion.

Once in a great while, I would watch a colleague (and friend's) freshman study hall if need be, but only if she had a bonafide emergency: she stroked out, her arm fell off, or her house was on fire.

It was on one such occasion when I discovered how kids today use "finesse." I had about 15 freshman in my room, all settled into desks and ordered to work on their homework if they planned on surviving their 25 minutes with me. Freshmen cannot be still for longer than 30 seconds nor can they go more than 30 seconds without antagonizing one another, so when one young man got up to flail about the room in search of a trashcan, another one slipped into his desk. As I began to hound the one that was up to get back in his seat, his excuse for not doing so was that his friend had, "finessed his seat."

Being a Czar of language, I was aware of the definition of finesse as an adverb for something done with grace, skill, and ease. I've heard it associated with a review a person's athleticism. And trust me, freshman are nowhere near graceful, skillful, or at ease.  No. Where. Near.

Based on my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deduction, I figured out "finesse" means to steal with stealth and a style (two more adjectives not within 3-4 years of a freshman).  The implication is that the "finesser" is to be admired for his/her expertise, subtlety, and smoothness. The connotation detracts from the negativity of the act. Taking what is not yours is softened with the s sound.  "Stealing" squeals and crashes; "finessing" slides and whispers. It brings admiration to the culprit the way James Bond brings class to a governmental assassin.

Did the freshmen survive their 25 minutes? Barely. Things became much better after I duct-taped them all to their seats.

As Ladies Get Thicc, Gentlemen Get Swole

Recently, while I was at the gym trying to get thicc, the guys around me were getting swole.

To clarify, I am already thick: that is an easy state to achieve via chocolate and tacos. Becoming thicc requires less chocolate, fewer tacos, and more chicken and vegetables. Oh, and lifting weights.

And to further clarify, men at the gym are not getting that kind of "swole" watching me work out. The injuries they sustain trying to get away from the sight of me getting thicc might have swole, but that's not what I mean either.

Swole is the man's version of thicc.  Here's where I engage in shameless self-promotion (and sheer laziness) and encourage you to read my previous post if you are hopelessly lost or if you have a memory like mine and can only remember lyrics from 80's hairband songs.


When I was a teenager, I liked my men buff like those hunky pilots playing volleyball in Top Gun. My father  nicknamed our muscle-exploding neighbor "meat-head"; in my early teaching years, student athletes had to spend at least one day in the school's weight room getting ripped, and more recently, Chris Hemsworth needed to pump iron and get swole for his roles as the powerful Thor and the "flying beefcake" stupid-secretary-done-possessed in Ghostbusters.

I understand the need to have a gender-specific word for having well-developed muscles.  No woman wants anything on her body to be "swole" and "ripped" makes us sound like victims of domestic violence. Or that we are ready to be served at a cannibals dinner party.  Referring to a man as thick (thicc) would be automatically associated with obstinacy instead of muscle mass.

Courtesy of a student athlete

Unfortunately, the development of these terms are not thoroughly thought out.  On behalf of women, the only thickness we want in life is in our steaks, our milkshakes, and the circumference of our mens' members.  For men, being buff sounds like they've been waxed, meat-head implies malice and stupidity, ripped sounds like he's just been in a brawl or that his muscles are in tatters (I know "shredding" ones muscles at Crossfit is a trend which does not sound appealing). I hear a man is "swole" and I think he's injured himself or he's aroused.

It will be interesting to see how the slang for strong, developed muscles evolves (or devolves) but hopefully it will have more attractive connotations.

Thick Through the Middle or Thicc at the Top and Bottom?

I love it when my students realize the power of language buried beneath its nuances without my teaching it.  It is rare, but it happens. When it does, I'd like to think its a result of the 20 years of teaching that has made me so adept at delivering education to young minds I am not even aware I'm doing it.  My students absorb knowledge just being in my presence.  Or, teenagers are smarter than I give them credit for.

No, it's my genius.

My genius really shines when I teach The Great Gatsby.  I love, love, love this novel.  Even before Baz Luhrmann. There's something about handsome, filthy rich, charming, and delusional men . . .

I focus heavily on character analysis with this novel.  For the character of Tom Buchanan, my approached is to view him through the lens of his women: his wife, Daisy and his mistress, Myrtle. While going over the difference between Daisy and Myrtle, my students showed me they do understand the importance of spelling.

Yes, you read correctly. The importance of spelling.

Mia Farrow and Carey Mulligan as Daisy Buchanan

The women's physical appearance reflect characteristics of their personalities. Daisy is young, delicate with a face "sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth."  In contrast, Myrtle is older, aggressive "she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering."

I find their difference in size relevant to character, but trepidation over my students translating "surplus flesh" into "fat" and therefore "ugly" tricks me into drawing attention to that particular detail as an attempt to divert the fat label.

"She is not fat," I always emphasize, with my hands planted firmly on my surplus hips. "She is what we call curvy or voluptuous."

Recently, a student, Isabel, added, "You mean she's thick?"

"Is that fat?"

"No, it means," Isabel looked to her neighbor, also a female, "how do you say it? She's just . . . thick."

"Is she thick because of fat or muscle?"

Neither Karen Black nor Isla Fisher have Myrtle Wilson's "surplus flesh"

A few male students confirmed that "thick" is muscular.  The young ladies in the room didn't quite agree.  Knowing that it could take the rest of the class--hell, the rest of the week--to get my students to agree on a definition, I wrote "thick" on the board and tried to move on to "delicate" Daisy.

"It's two Cs," several students said.  "T-H-I-C-C."

"Why two Cs?"

They look at each other and shrug.

"There must be a reason, otherwise why not just spell it T-H-I-C-K?"

No one seems to know. Or care.

I changed the spelling on the board to T-H-I-C-C.  When I turned back around to face the class, I see Isabel curving the fingers of each hand to form the letter C. She whispered something to her neighbor who does the same with her hands and then they both burst out laughing.

"Figure something out back there?" I asked them.

Isabel holds up her Cs again, raising one hand higher than the other: "Boobs," she said about the higher C and "Butt" about the lower C.

Okay, so T-H-I-C-C isn't related to muscle but more the quantity of TNA (Tits and Ass, not Talula National Athletics clothing brand, nor Total Nonstop Action wrestling alliance, nor Texas Nurses Association).

I was satisfied with the two-Cs-symbol-for-TNA explanation for the spelling, but then one girl piped up: "We spell it that way, so it is ours. So that the definition belongs to our generation." Crossing her arms, she gave me a sharp nod to indicate the discussion was over.

Can we all say progeny? Reincarnated linguist? Reason I can retire? Her indignation at my academic approach only reinforced an academic approach. Paradox aside, I couldn't help but get goosebumps watching my students try to figure out language. It is one of the reasons I "beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past” (Fitzgerald).

Kids and Clean Cannot Co-exist

I am a very clean person.  Boringly clean. Disturbingly clean. I-need-a-life clean. If I am feeling frazzled or stressed, I clean. For some reason, herding and purging dirt makes me feel grounded and in control of my life.  I wish eating vegetables and jogging made me feel in control of my life, but it doesn't work half as well as cleaning. Or eating chocolate and drinking wine.

Since I live alone, keeping my place organized and spotless is fairly easy. So is eating chocolate and drinking wine. I was so grounded a tree would be jealous. Then my sister had to go and have kids and just throw my life into chaos.

Jay, 5 and Blake, 22 mths.

I used to try and fight the chaos when my nephews would come stay the night with me. I'd run around behind them wiping things down and picking things up; I ran the vacuum so much that my cats now suffer from shell shock. Finally, I accepted a modified version of a clean and orderly house--modified being there would be no clean and no orderly. After a night with one or with both boys, my place could serve as a set for hoarders. Toys would blanket the floor; Cheerios, Goldfish crackers, and God-knows-what-else jammed between seat cushions and clinging to carpet fibers could supply me and my cats snacks for days. And when Jay began using the toilet, my bathroom became a bio-hazard.

My one feeble attempt to maintain some kind of order when my nephews visit is during bath-time.  I know; it's like trying to stay on a diet in Las Vegas, but logic has never been my strong suit.

To prep for bath time, I first remove all my beauty products from the tub and put them out-of-reach. Then, I line the bathroom floor with towels, because I learned quickly kids scare water so much it will leap out of the tub in order to escape them. I load the tub with toys, water and bubbles and then dump the kids in to play, hopefully long enough for me to savor my wine instead of shooting it like Tequila.

Last Saturday night, I had both nephews. I went through my preparation, got the kids situated but before I had my fingers wrapped around the stem of my glass I heard Jay call, "Auntie!"

I headed back to the bathroom to him leaping from the tub, announcing, "I have to poop!"

He jumped onto the pot before I could get his kid potty-seat down (the only thing keeping him from falling in were braced hands and skinny arms).  Even though I was focused on keeping Jay from falling into the toilet, I noticed some suspicious movement from his brother, Blake, in the tub. Before I could further investigate, Jay pulled my attention back to him by saying, "Auntie, I have something bad to tell you."

Awesome.

"I pooped a little in the tub."

If you have not had the pleasure of fishing poop out of a tub, let me tell you it is probably the most disgusting thing I've ever had to do. Ever.

Well, Blake had handled that for me. In a tub filled with at least 100 toys bobbing beneath a mountain of suds, that toddler managed to find the only, small nugget of shit. Kids can't find their shoes, their homework, their pants, their parents, their ass--but this one can find the only thing in the damn tub I didn't want him to touch.

Blake squished the nugget into a pancake, shrugged, and then smeared it on the wall.

Let's just say we did a Bath Time, Take 2.  And I did shoot my wine like Tequila.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

My 4th period juniors have been quite a challenge this year.  They are good kids, but their collective ego could use some humbling.  I have several varsity football players in that class, and our team does quite well. Put a bunch of successful athletes who are also buddies in the same class and it becomes an ego-off.  I make one statement and I have six boys trying to out smart-ass each other.

Of course, I've been through the steps of smart-ass management.  First, I seat them far away from one another, and when they should across the room, I send them outside and call parents.  When those consequences wear off, I go to siting quietly at my podium, looking disgusted and bored at their witty banter, reminding them to "Waste all the time that you want.  I'm not the one whose gonna end up with more homework because y'all need to be the center of attention." That usually gets their peers, just as "over" by their antics to apply some peer pressure.

Yes, there are moments when I consider seating them together in the back corner of the room and telling them to just bro-love themselves to death as long as they don't disrupt what I'm teaching (and their grades will tank because they won't know what's going on), but I refuse to give in.

With enough patience and consistency, I usually get them in line within a month or so.

Then Spring Break hits and everything goes to shit. All systems break down.  All adherence to the rules goes out the window. It becomes pure survival: juniors want to be seniors, seniors want to be graduated, and I want to be on an Italian Vineyard sipping wine.

To keep both me and the students from going nuts, I find a compromise between my teaching integrity and their unwillingness to do anything.  I ease up on the homework, slow down my pace within the classroom, and do my best to teach something the students will enjoy (or at least not whine every time I ask them to get out their books).

Currently, I am teaching my juniors the novel, The Great Gatsby.  Of course, most have seen the movie, but my approach is to have students determine whether F. Scott Fitzgerald would approve of Bax Lurhmann's interpretation: does he represent the spirit of the novel or would Lurhmann's adjustments to plot and character representation give Fitzgerald reason to rise from the grave and sober up long enough to tell Lurhmann Gatsby never loses his cool.

But I digress.

As expected, my 4th period egos are interested in Gatsby.  He is a baller; the novel is full of drinking and drama. It's all about flash and display of greatness (I wait until the end of the novel to explain that Fitzgerald is criticizing these ideas).

Today, the class analyzed how the party guests who attend his parties and wreck his house and Gatsby himself are represented in the novel.  I told them to list adjectives to describe the characters' behavior. With the party guests, I specifically said to not use the adjective "drunk."

Immediately, the students start shouting out, "how about lit? Buzzed? Wasted? Wrecked? Trashed?'

"Nor any synonyms for drunk," I emphasized.  "What can you say about people who get that drunk all the time?"  Then I waved off any answer to that question, realizing that at that age being falling down drunk is cool.

I knew I was taking a risk giving this task to my 4th period full of the "in crowd" and ADHD, but I'm edgy.  Or stupid--the verdict is still out.

After a few minutes of vigorous scribbling, I have the students share their adjectives with their neighbors.  I specifically say, "With those sitting next to you."

Immediately, one of my rambunctious athletes, Caleb, who sits two feet from my podium, shouts to his friend across the room, "Hey, Freddy. I put lit, wasted, and fucked-up for party guests.  What did you put?"

The class goes silent.  Students look at me and then look at Caleb. My forehead hits the podium.

"What?" Caleb asked.  "What did I do?  Ms. Vance, are you okay?"

Wine, whether on an Italian Villa or no, here I come.

In Awe and Reverence of Parents

I am amazed to see parents who can manage to hold down a job, keep a house, remain social, and not go absolutely nuts.  Several of my co-workers have young children and every day they show up with a smile on their faces to teach even more children. With smiles on their faces.  Fashionably dressed. Healthy, packed lunches at the ready.  I'm convinced they are medicated.

Or, Holden Caulfield so eloquently stated, "All mothers are slightly insane."

I keep my nephews for 24 hours and I feel, look and behave like a mental patient whose been on the streets for weeks.  If manage to brush my teeth, I feel like a champ.

Those who own me.

There is nothing, nothing I love more in this world than my two nephews: Jay, who is 5, and Blake, who is almost 1 1/2.  They spend the night with me often, usually one at a time, but there are occasions when I keep both. One is hard enough; two, OMG.

This parenting shit is hard.  And I am not even parenting; I'm quasi-parenting. Actually, I just keep them alive. Naively, I figured all it required was to throw food at them, change a diaper, and block them from running into traffic. Guess what? It takes a lot more than that.

I have to convince Jay flipping over couches and leaping off chairs can result in him getting hurt, try to get him to eat anything other than candy and chips (I have no problem spoiling him; I do have a problem with the demon within unleashed by sugar), and if I take him to the park? That adds at least 100 other ways he can hurt himself: slides, swings, strangers, oh my.

And the gear one needs to keep a baby alive: I don't know how anyone can afford to be parents.  You need diapers, 5 changes of clothes per day, a sleep sack, butt cream, wipes, whole milk, baby food, regular food (that he'll like, that he can "swallow" without choking because chewing is new), a high chair, and a pack-n-play. Oh, and toys.  Lots and lots of toys.

The first time I watched both boys for an extended period of time, we barely made it. And when I say "we" I mean me.  After that harrowing 24 hours, I swore the next time my sister asked if I could take both overnight, I'd immediately volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. I just don't have enough arms, patience, and brain cells to keep both of them alive for an extended period of time.

As with all other great pains in life-- heart-break, labor, crossfit--time blotted out the memory of it, so when my sister and mom went to DC for five days, I volunteered as tribute to watch both nephews overnight to provide her husband with a break.

I prepped like a motherfucker: I stocked up on child and baby preferred snacks: Cheerios, bananas, fruit, and cookies.  Bottles are pulled out and lined up on the counter.  Sheets were laid over the furniture to save them from ruin. All breakable items were stashed in a closet. Pack-n-play was set up (after a lot of cursing and sweating). Wine was chilled. And if shit really gets rough, children's Benedryl was loaded in the medicine syringe ready to fire.

The first 5 hours, I managed fairly well.  Kids were fed and entertained.  My apartment was littered with toys, but nothing has been broken. Each kid had only one or two brushes with death.

Inevitably, my strength waned. I'm not sure why Jay can't get it through his head that he shouldn't cover his brother's face, and since I don't speak baby babble, I'm not sure how to communicate to Blake that kamikaze diving off my ottoman is not a good idea. I had been watching Teen Titians, PAW Patrol, and Team Umizoomie forever, so I found the movie Dawn of Justice: Batman vs. Superman for them to watch--it's about superheroes, so it's child-appropriate, right?--but after Jay asked me 1000 questions about the plot, I'm ready to go back to helping Umizoomie save another one of their dumbass friends. My feet were pock-marked from stepping on legos. I considered putting tape over Blake's mouth to keep him from shoving anything and everything into it--he can still breath through his nose--but the last thing I need to be doing is giving Jay ideas.

I had poured a glass of wine, but couldn't find two seconds to actually drink it.  One of the kids might have drank it; I don't know.

When I got Blake to go to sleep for the night, I figured I might be at the end of the gauntlet. Jay was watching television, so I told him I was going to take a quick shower.  And I mean quick--long enough to get clean--no relaxing, not pampering.  In and out.  But as soon as I had lathered up my hair and then . . . surprise! My shower curtain flew open and there was Jay, "Auntie, are you done yet?"

Yes, young man, I am done. And I still have about 12 hours to go.

I'm sure parenting books have a chapter on how to synchronize the sleeping of multiple children, but I haven't read them.  Blake was asleep at 8:30 p.m. and then up at 3 a.m.  We hung out for two hours--me trying to convince myself that I'm a rockstar being up at 3 a.m.  I think "rockstar" status is negated by poopy diapers though. I finally got Blake back to sleep at 5 a.m. just to have Jay pounce on me at 6 a.m.

I had to make it until noon.  If I made it, I had planned on auditioning for Survivor.

Jay doesn't understand the concept of brain development. To tell him that Blake "doesn't understand"--well, anything--doesn't quite sink in.  So, when Blake threw his Cheerios all over the floor, Jay figured he had license to throw his much bigger bowl of Cheerios on the floor. Fuck it; I told them to pick their breakfast out of the carpet. Hell, I saw Blake eat a few Cheerios he peeled off the bottom of his foot. Breakfast turned into a scavenger hunt since they had to sift through the toys that blanketed the floor.

I've heard parents--moms especially--lament the time they used to have to themselves.  They claim they can't do anything alone.  My own mother swears that she hasn't "peed or had a can of Pepsi to herself in 35 years."

While my nephews scrounged for their breakfast, I decided to duck into the bathroom. Not ten seconds after my butt hit the toilet seat, Jay comes in asking me how kryptonite works.  As I explained this (for the 100th time), Blake toddled in with a small tennis ball and began bouncing it off the walls.

Taking a dump while explaining the power of a glowing green rock while a ball pings around my head: #glamlife.

At 11:30, I loaded those kids up and drove 80 miles an hour to meet up with their dad to hand them off.  In my pajamas.

When I got home, it took me hours to get my place and my psyche back in order.  A week later, I'm still stepping on Cheerios.

In my opinion, setting a pack-n-play up and breaking it down qualifies as a workout.  I may not have been able to brush my teeth, but I could scratch "exercise" off my list.  Shit, I can't even do that on a day without kids.

Honoring Dad

My father, Michael MacDonald Vance, died from a heart attack on Friday, September 4, 2015 at 11:59 p.m.  He was 69 years and 6 days old.

I am very conscious of dates and time and so was my father. Therefore, I am exact when people ask me when he died. Those who knew him would appreciate that he died at 11:59 and that he expected me to be accurate. He died on Friday night not Saturday morning. Such an error in detail would be egregious.

But since Dad has died, my concept of time has been thrown off. From the time when he went into the hospital for a host of other physical ailments to the time he passed was 3.2857142857 weeks and yet to me it feels like 6 months. Then there are days when I feel like I have just seen him; have just talked to him. He is no more distant than the moment I am thinking of him.

Dad with his "kitties" Fluffy and Scooter

Every day this week I’ve been thinking, “Friday will be one month since Dad died.”  I’ve rallied friends to keep me company so that I don’t cry my face off.  Then last night when I was shuffling around my apartment I happened to glance at the calendar and realized that today is the 2^nd, not the 4^th, of October. It is not the one-month anniversary of his death, but the four-week anniversary. The only timeline that’s measured in weeks is pregnancy, so Dad would be annoyed if I mourned his one-month anniversary today, because it isn’t the one-month anniversary. And there’s a part of me that wants to honor his love of the punctilious and reign in the emotions until Sunday.

But when it comes to love and grief, time means nothing and everything. Those sentiments would make him crazy, but that's also a way for me to honor my father. I loved prodding him with such lofty, abstract thinking. 

Nevertheless Dad, I miss you every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month. 

The Party Never Stops

Teaching writing is far more challenging than teaching literature. With literature, a teacher has fascinating characters, engaging plots, and important themes that they can easily get behind.  English teachers, even those who are just paying the bills until they get their great American novel published, did not choose their major because they loved writing essays (or even novels). They did so because of literature.  Teaching straight, expository writing is much more challenging because it’s hard to make the writing process interesting to students.

At least I can make the topics of writing more edgy and fun when I teach my college students.  For example, when introduce the classification and analysis essay, I ask students to break up the guests of a typical House Party into different categories.  The term “guests” is a bit of an euphemism because very few people at House Parties are actually invited.  For those of you whose rebellion happened before the 21st century, House Parties, formally known as Flyer Parties (90s), formally known as Ragers (80s) occur whenever a teen’s parents have gone out of the town for the weekend and word gets out that there is an adult-free abode in which to indulge in iniquities.  Concept has been around for decades (hell, centuries) but the name has changed.

Same with those who attend.  As the students shared their categories, I learned some new labels.

For those who for the tradition of drinking:

·         The hot heads: The ones that start drinking and just want to get down. “Getting down” means to fight. I thought it was a reference to sex. In context, both definitions make sense to me.

·         Flops: People that can't handle their alcohol

The fact that no one offered a category of silly, jovial drunks makes me wonder just how much fun is to be had at House Parties.

For those who are into a little bit more than alcohol:

·         Burnouts: People who come to do drugs

·         Fiends: People that are just looking to smoke weed and just want people to smoke them out. I assume they differ from burnouts because they are cannabis-focused where burnouts will take anything.

·         The Dealer: The person that comes to make money from drug selling.

·         Ballooners: Go to party to do noz from the noz tank until they forget how to speak. This party behavior is new to me.  Apparently, if it’s a good party, then there will be a tank of nitrous oxide to take hits off of (kind of like a step-up from inhaling from helium balloons).  And yes, the goal is to become a drooling idiot.  I also pointed out that the goal is to kill off your brain cells. Permanently.

For those looking for a little tail:

·         The thirsty: people desperate to have sex.  Before submitting this category, a student asked me if I know what “being thirsty” meant. I was a little suspicious: either they think I’ve been ballooning too much or if it was too scandalous to put into spoken (or written) language. I told them I assumed that it referred to a bonafide alcoholic. I stand corrected.

·         Smashers: girls only good for sex.   

·         Outcasts: socially awkward people that show up so they could get noticed.

As a teacher and possible mentor, even to college students, I did take this opportunity to point out that these highly destructive behaviors are all ways to escape.  Those who frequent House Parties are probably suffering some sort of personal trauma or self-esteem issues.  I commented on the irony of parties becoming the stage to let all the things that are no-so-fun about us to come out.  Our social lives, which are meant to be a reprieve from stress and anxiety, are quickly becoming the fuel for more stress and anxiety.

Not sure anyone understood me. Maybe too many Ballooners in the room. Maybe I have fallen into the Party Pooper category.