me, myself, I, and then me all over again

I’ve spoken of this before, but it always strikes me as funny how people have their own views of me—often that are very wrong. People that have known me, sometimes for years, and then see me in a different situation and have their mind blown. Sometimes, I find it funny, often though, I find it rather stupid—as if I’m allowed to only have one-dimension to my personality. It’s also rather funny that depending on how they know me, the flat views of my personality are so varied. Most common are those who simply know me from my online profiles/pictures, or have seen me out and about (the gym, around town, etc.). Apparently, in such areas, I am most often perceived as a cocky party boy. One who likes to drink and do drugs and pretty much thinks he’s the shit. From what I gather (from what people have said and from my own inspection of myself), this most likely comes from the tattoos, the every changing hair which frequently takes the shape of a Mohawk, and that I have good posture—I walk with my shoulders back and chest out (this is due to my mother always getting onto me for slouching—which is now a pet peeve of my own). This perception of me is always my favorite, because it is so far from who I actually am. I rarely drink and have never smoked a cigarette in my life. And as far as cocky. . . I wish.
Then, there is the other extreme. People that have only seen the insecure, quite, sweet, easy-going, nice aspect of me. It always shocks them when I get angry. When I get vehement about an issue. When I get stubborn and bulldoggish. When they discover that I’m rather ferocious and tender in alternations sexually. When I get furious or adamant about a certain belief or situation. These things seem to throw such people off the most. They’ve narrowed me down to a wallflower who is only sweet and a doormat. This seems to be the revelation that some people aren’t able to accept from, to let meld with what they believed about me before.
The reason this is on my mind, other than avoiding the normal thoughts which we are ALL sick of, is how much this has happened at work lately—at district meetings, outdoor lab, etc. People that have known me for a long time but have never spent a long stretch of time with me or seen me in certain situations. For instance, at ODL, there was another teacher there (who will get his own blog entry later when I won’t be quite as vile with his description) who was a gargantuan lump of fat who refused to move to help his disturbed children because his disgusting body couldn’t support its own weight and he didn’t want to put down his novel. Who praised his kids and gave them rewards in order to get them to calm down, after the child would curse out staff and other kids alike. Let’s just say, I had no issue voicing my opinion of this ‘man’ and treating his para with the respect and deferment I would typically give to the teacher. One of my co-teacher, after hearing me speak and watching my interactions with him simply said, “Wow, and here I’ve always thought you were just this little, sweet thing…” She didn’t disagree with my assessment, but was rather thrown off by my fury. Similar happened at a district meeting yesterday when I voiced my assertions that I was sick of the district wasting our time on trainings that neither directly apply to what we do or are things that each of us know like the back of our hands—trainings in which the speaker stands up and says, “I’ve never worked with the kinds of kids you do, but here is this tool. I don’t know if it will help or not, but here it is.” Really? Again? Once more, another teacher looked at me and said, “Wow, I’ve never seen this side of you before. I’m not sure what to do.”

Is any of this important? Nope. Is it really what is weighing heavily on my mind? Nope. Will anyone’s reactions to any of this change me? Nope. Does it provide my fingers the chance to move and my mind to vomit forth words that relieve some of the pressure? Yep. Thanks for that.

neurotic mayo

I believe I brought this up once before—but it’s getting worse. For the past couple months, I’ve been growing more and more neurotic about locked doors. Namely, my car and my house. There’s only been one time that I’ve found it to be unlocked. I’m not sure what’s going on in my brain. I will remember locking the door. I’ll be positive I locked it. However, I will get several feet away—sometimes quite a long ways away—and I will have to go back and check. If I don’t, I eats at my brain, wondering if I locked the door, even if I remember locking it. Thus far, I have gone ahead and given into the neurosis. It’s not going to hurt anything by continuing to check to make sure I’ve locked the door, so why not? However, it feels like this strangeness is coming from somewhere other than just being worried about the actual locking of doors. Not really sure what it means, or if it matters. All I know is, as I walk back to my house or back to my car my brain is screaming, “freak! freak!”
On other notes, to all you who think we Missouri cooks don’t know what we are talking about when we say that low-fat stuff isn’t the same and tastes like shit: You suck! I, once again, gave into your guilt laden words this week as I prepared one of my favorite meals. It’s one of the least fancy things I do. I’ve not made it for one person here in Colorado that likes it. However, it’s what I get hungry for the most. Ms. Wells made it form my family when one of my grandparents died. It’s a casserole. Chicken, carrots, broccoli, tons of mayo and cream of chicken soup, topped with cheese and crunched up potato chips, served over brown rice. One of the least healthy things you could ever eat. Fat and cholesterol city. As I was buying the huge vats of mayonnaise, I begin to feel the pressure of living in what was recently named the healthiest state and my desire to be sexier (although, just found out yesterday, two of my married teachers [women] have been discussing what they think my body would look like naked—and apparently, they’ve decided they’d really like it----things you never dreamed your elementary teachers talked about])—so half of the mayo I bought was the kind made with Olive Oil. I decided that wouldn’t be too bad since I love olive oil. It was horrible! So not good. Slimier and hardly any taste—and somehow greasier. As I made to two 9X13 pans (I always do bulk cooking for my frozen leftover meals), one with normal, one with olive oil mayo, I have sooooo much that sucks. I decided to mix them together in an effort to increase damage control. Now I have nearly twenty frozen meals that suck ass—and not in the fun, family-friendly way. Screw you, skinny people!

Flamer

Today, I break the law.
Smart to blog about it, I know. It’s been a quite awhile since I’ve claimed to be smart.
For the first time in awhile, I actually feel a bit guilty about it. It’s strange. I was so straight laced and by-the-book all the way into my early twenties. Ridiculously so. Annoyingly so. Now, I don’t think much about ‘civil disobedience.’ Part of it is that I no longer respect our government, or at least those who run it. In addition the amount of taxes and the inane and minuscule laws they come up with truly infringe on our freedoms—maybe not in the huge, enslaved way, but still.
My reason for guilt this time is that I have to admit it to my children. They know what is going on, and they realize why I am doing what I am doing. Granted, I am not the only teacher who is doing it, but I was the first to start. The first to rebel openly and loudly.
The fire chief is coming to inspect our school tomorrow.
As you know, I am rather proud of my classroom. I have taken a classroom that got me depressed the minute I entered it when I was volunteering and interviewing at this school. I honestly considered not taking the job just due to the classroom. There are no windows and only florescent overhead lighting. Both things that affect my mood and depression greatly. Both things that are documented to also have a negative effect on students—especially those like mine.
I took this classroom and molded it to the classroom everyone wants to be in. People come in and let out their breath and say how they would love to come in here and just sit, just be. Come in here to escape. It’s gorgeous. The paint, the paper lamps, the cozy bookroom with a glider, pillow chairs, beanbags, and pillows. In every aspect, sans windows, it is my perfect classroom. There’s nothing I would change (except paint one more wall).
Mr. Fire Chief says you are not allowed to have ANY lamps, no pillows or stuffed animals that don’t have certain fire safety tag from the vendor (even if the things I had came with those, the first thin I would have done is cut them off—who wants tags all over everything?). No extension cords. (Without the extension cords [that my school provided] I would have no power for my computers—not kidding.) The list goes on and on.
I am taking all my lamps down and hiding all my bookroom items (most, anyway).
I am going to put them all back up after the inspection.
It seems the fire chief we are getting likes to pop back in randomly after the inspection.
Great.
My kids know what I am doing. My principal knows what I am doing. Other teachers know what I am doing. The head facility manager (who is responsible) knows what I am doing. You know what I am doing. And, the fire chief, should he be a blog-follower (yeah, right) now knows what I am doing.
I hope I don’t forget to put away the fire pit that we use to make smores during math class….

oh, to be a pack mule

The week at OutDoorLab was pretty great. I was so tired when I returned home. However, I need another week or two away from it all. I’d go back in a heartbeat if I had the chance right now.
All I had to do was use muscle (you try pushing a kid in a wheelchair up mountains, while everyone else who is simply walking is trying to breathe). It was strangely comforting. In some ways, I was a only good for my strength, in other ways a tiny bit of a hero (not really) as there was no way this child could have done any of the mountain classes without me there. I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to look at my life too much. There were few connections to the past there, some, but not many.
Now, I have to think again. Have to remember again. Have to look at reality again. Ugh.

assembly required

I’ve tried to not blog all day. I really do get tired of complaining. However, hopefully, getting it out will help me not dwell. Help me turn off my brain.
We leave tomorrow for OutDoorLab for the week. I am crazy excited about being away from here for a few days, away from the phone, away from all things Brandon’s life (except for work—which is the least confusing part of life, most of the time). I get to turn off my brain for the week. Or at least try.
Hwmnbn keeps coming up. And not because of me. Things people say, things I hear—even when I’m actively trying to avoid any news of him. How ‘disgustingly sweet and gushy he and his boyfriend are on facebook.’ Etc. Blah. Blah. Blah. Really? The reason I deleted him from facebook is so that I wouldn’t have him thrown in my face constantly. These are things I don’t need or want to hear or know about. Maybe it’s good to hear. I just know it hurts. More than it should still. That fact alone hurts too. I don’t want to be the pathetic one still in love with him anymore. The one wondering how he made all those promises and now shouts his love to the world for someone else. I’m the castoff. The castoff that can’t remember it was dropped off at the thrift store for someone else to paw over.
In the midst of this is the whole going on dates thing. I have crushes on people. I have hopeful feelings about some. Wonderings if maybe that part of my life isn’t over, that maybe it is really only beginning. Thoughts that maybe I’m ready. Then some bitch slap across the face/heart that screams I’m not. But I have to, right? To move on, to stop living in the mire I’ve been wallowing in, I have to.
I need an instruction manual so, so badly.

rushed

One of those days when I have soooo much I want/need to talk about. Things of the normal variety (for me) that have been bouncing inside my head since yesterday. Things about work and frustrations with our system, both how we ‘protect’ kids and the ridiculous laws around ‘safety’ (you can’t do anything when a parent is continuously emotionally abusive to a crippling degree, but God forbid you have a stuffed animal in your room that doesn’t have a fire safety tag on it). Things of fear, addiction, and hope. Things of life. Unfortunately, life calls and my fingers won’t have the opportunity to relieve the soul.

airpowered

Let me start by saying, I’m not in tears right now. In fact, as today marks the first day in several that I don’t want to take a nail gun to my forehead to relieve the sinus pressure, I’m doing pretty good.
Let me say this as well. The events of yesterday have made me accept something that I think I’ve been too scared or guilty to say—but that probably everyone else knew. I think I’m ready to give being in a relationship a try again. Even saying that brings up such a torrent of emotions (guilty, as if I’m cheating on him, fear that I’m give up too soon, etc). It also makes me realize that maybe I simply am not feeling it with the very few who have expressed interest in a relationship, but I wasn’t able to go there with them.
Warning: If you choose to read between the lines of the following, you may experience TMI.
After talking to a cute guy for the past week (someone I’ve known for years, but only in a peripheral sense) we decided to meet yesterday to spend some time getting to know each other better and make out and such. We met at a restaurant, which wasn’t what I’d had in mind. It was our first time to ever spend time one on one. I was shocked. I felt at ease immediately. I was myself, not nervous, not self-conscious, etc. After half an hour or so, my thoughts went beyond kissing to the remote possibility of there being a possible chance for more. And no, I swear that didn’t come across to him.
When it came time for a transition to kissing, he began to speak differently. By the second word, I knew where he was going. I know it by heart. Before he was done, I interrupted. ‘You’re giving me the friends speech already aren’t you?’
‘No. No not at all. For one, I think you’re smoking hot. However, right now, I really just need friends.’
FYI, no matter the context, if the words just and friends are in the same sentence, it’s the friends speech.
At this point, my poker face, ala Lady Gaga, apparently broke.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ not looking at him, ‘you’re kinda triggering something things in me that you don’t mean to, and I know that. Not a big deal.’

“You’re gorgeous, and perfect. I’m just not ready.” They hang up the phone.
“I loved you for years. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved. I just don’t know if I can ever be in a relationship.” They call the day after the reconciliation began.
“I’ll never leave…….If I could ever marry someone it’s you. I hope I can come back to you some day. I’ll never love anyone like you.” They say, as you watch two and half years of your life crumble, then watch them date someone else.
“You’re smoking hot. I need friends right now.” They say before you want a nail gun for other reasons than allergies.

humanity behind glass

The concern I brought up about six weeks ago is now half way through and so far, it seems like a miracle is genuine. I am very, very grateful. I am holding onto faith as much as I can, and look forward to being able to have faith realized.

I have found much enjoyment (and annoyance) from our classroom terrarium. The salamander seems to be just decoration. All he does is lay there under the moss. It is fun to watch him eat, but that’s about it. And, his frog face is pretty adorable. I’ve decided he is a mythical creature. Face of frog, body of lizard, tail of snake. Pretty cool. In theory. Apparently, mythical creatures are really dull and boring. (Says the man who went to bed at 9:30 and had to struggle to wake up—damned allergies.)
The coolest part of the terrarium, besides how pretty it is (humble, humble), is the crickets. I’ve always loved crickets, and never understood how people could be freaked out by them. Well, I’m starting to. I will sit and watch them and completely loose track of time. Before I know it, twenty minutes has gone by and I’m sitting watching bugs. They really are alienish; yet have such human characteristics at times.
You dump a bunch of them in this new (gorgeous) environment, complete with waterfalls, different levels connected with natural bridges of stone and moss, a stream and a pond filled with fish. The crickets immediately do one of two things. About half them start out on their trek and explore their world, seemingly relishing their newly found faux freedom. The other half gather and begin cleaning one another and conversing. Yes, crickets converse. It is really cool to watch. You’d be a fool to not recognize their conversations. (It is rather fun to have an ongoing dialogue in my mind, but I won’t swear that I’m accurately interpreting their meaning. I’m not yet the cricket whisperer. That’s right boys. Who wants to be the first to get naked with the cricket whisperer? Expect a flyer coupon in the mail shortly.) It’s fascinating to take in their interactions. In both of these actions, they really do seem like these gross little people. Each with their roles—both possibly vital for the community they plan on having.
Enter Salamander. Here is where their seemingly intelligence ends. They will be in a little group. Discussing cricket politics and sexual revolution. Salamander will creep beside them and devour one of their peers. I swear to you—I swear—they look over at him, at the empty space where their comrade stood, and continue their conversation, or at times, relocate to the top of Salamander’s head as he finishes swallowing. I can’t help but think how stupid and shallow they are at that moment. But, how human as well. As we see our friends give up their lives to alcohol and drugs and [fill in your own blank], look over, mourn momentarily, and then snort another line.
I really think if I spend enough time watching the terrarium world, I may stumble upon some hidden human reality.

priorities

Editing two books at the same time (while trying to work, work out, do massage, and keep in some contact with family and friends) is proving challenging. I’m excited to have a couple hours to devote to it at the moment.
I’ve been a little emotional today. Lonely—specifically lonely, which is so much harder than just an overall loneliness. I just got a little teary as I was watering down what was left of my green iced tea. I looked out on the patio at the coffee shop, and saw two you guys (remember my age—young is becoming relative) with two small boys, one probably three, the other pushing two or so. I don’t know that they are a gay little family, but chances are good, since they’re here. Given that I barely have time to devote to my craft (pompous, no?), the last thing I should want is marriage and kids. Of course, we all know I want that even more than my craft (maybe it sounds more witchish than pompous…).
Seeing how I’m bitching about time, I suppose I should cease on the planned blog. You’ve heard it all before, and my whining doesn’t change anything. Onto the books…

humbled

It seems I have not been very good as seeing the hand of God in my life in the past year or so. I know that doesn’t mean that it’s not there, just that I don’t see it. (However, I’d like to actually see it more—just saying.) Yesterday, I did see. As we all know, money has been an issue for quite awhile—but so has my ability to stay on top of things and I’ve developed quite the habit of not opening bills and such. Why see things if I can’t change them? Well, I found out.
I’d seen a couple letters from my insurance company, but I didn’t even worry about those, if figured they were just those stupid mass flyers. The bill is paid automatically at the first of the month, so nothing to worry about. Only, I’d forgotten that I hadn’t changed it when I switched banks. Come to find out, I’ve been driving without insurance for over a month. That has quickly been rectified. The payments are now automatic once again. It was rather like getting out of a murky pool and finding out you were swimming with piranhas at the bottom. They either didn’t notice you or just didn’t find you appealing. It could have been horrible. And, I could have lost everything. Everything.
I have to give all credit to God. In a world where it seems like things are waiting for the worst possible minute to go wrong, where it seems like thing after thing is designed to see how much stress or pain or grief can be educed, I was surrounded in a shield of protection. One that sheltered me from my own naivety, ignorance, and incompetence. I am thoroughly grateful.

hell is pastel

I have been moving so fast over the past many days that I honestly haven’t had time to think, at all. I’ve gone from one thing to another to another. I don’t even have the time or the energy to watch a show as I fall asleep with Dunkyn. I tried last night, couldn’t even make it. Part of this is really nice. I’m not thinking about things, I don’t have time to really feel much. It’s a nice relief. However, I’m accustom to being more grounded(?) than I am right now—more aware. It’s a little like vertigo inducing or something. One distraction to the next. Not sure how much longer this can last (as I don’t have anything unscheduled in the next several days, I guess awhile longer), but I suppose I should just enjoy it while I can get a break from reality.
One of the ways I distracted myself was painting pottery with my brother this weekend. Huh, just realized something. The search for the gift certificate and all I found on that quest is when the distraction tirade started. Should have realized that before. No wonder. Well, I hope the distractions last for quite a bit longer. I don’t wanna have to relook at that again. Anyway, pottery.
He got a certificate to a place we’d never been before. We both love doing these together, actually, there’s not much we don’t enjoy doing together. This place was like entering the Twilight Zone. It was Precious Moments meets Sunday School meets Stepford meets The Hills Have Eyes.
It was one of those places where the absence of music or background noise is creepy. Complete silence except for the owners and their cheerfully creepy assistant’s voices. The husband wasn’t too bad, but he was partially blind and used a walking stick. Lucky bastard. The wife, at first glance, was semi-normal looking. Just another fifty-sixtyish church lady. However, her falsely cheerful laughter and encouraging words about every stroke of paint everybody made did nothing to hide the cannibalistic hunger barely caged inside of her.
The assistant, who I believe was formed from mitosis from the church lady, was quickly learning her craft. At one point, another customer (adult) had an exacto-knife that she was using on her piece. When she set it down beside her, the assistant rushed over, scooping it up, and breathless asked if she were done using it. The lady said that she wasn’t. In a stressed voice, the girl expressed concern over the safety of having a blade lying around. She was worried a child might pick it up and harm themselves. (There were no children in the damn place). After the church lady had already looked at my piece and commented that I must be in a dark place in my life or mood or something, I was already seething. This preposterousness over the blade put me over the edge. I looked over and said, “You have a point. I’ve been known to go around cutting things when I see sharp objects lying around.” She didn’t quite know how to respond. The other customer seemed to appreciate knowing she wasn’t alone in this alternate universe. To my dismay my comment didn’t have the desired affect of making assistant girl keep her distance. As I went back to the sink to wash some of my materials, she followed. There she proceeded to guess every place she might have run into me. I’d never heard of anyplace she inquired about. It was bizarre, and rather like a feline in heat trying to rub her musk over me without my noticing. It was if she were debating whether to mount me while eating my face as she mated or quote Bible verses to save my soul.
Every piece I’d done previous had a mermaid or ocean theme. Shocking, right? The piece I chose this time was the largest I’d ever done. A big platter. I hope to use it at a cake plate. For some reason, when I saw it, it was like the design was already on the plate. Of course, I used my typical Earth tone pallet, but painted tree branches jutting in from the side of the piece with a bird silhouette against the background. Hardly original, but it looked gorgeous (although you never know until it’s fired). This is the piece that showed the darkness of my soul. Of course, ever piece church lady had done was in not-so-varying pastel tones. There are few things I hate worse than pastel colors, even more than primary colors. She actually had a bit of Professor Umbridge in her. She’d stand over my shoulder making false complimentary comments, all the while making strange, guttural noises from her throat. Each comment she made to children in the store the next day when we came in sounded as if she were speaking to retarded piglets. All the while picturing them roasting in a pain, their skins hung up to tan.
A few minutes after we left, church lady called my brother’s phone. For me. Great. He handed me the phone. She inquired, in a quite concerned apologetic tone, if I realized I’d painted my bird upside down. Incredulous, I had her repeat her inquiry. Yep, upside down. Now, granted, I don’t remember if I centered the scene with the handles or not. To be honest, I don’t care. I kind of like it when things are at an angle. However, my branches that were jutting out from the side of the piece, church lady turned to be coming out of the bottom so that they were trees, making the bird’s situation on the branch very precarious. Not bothering to try to explain that not all things have to completely literal or pastel, I told her to go with it and fire the damn thing. Both of us felt the need to rinse of the crazy in boiling water. Maybe it’s time for the exorcism that people have offered me.

poor choices

A second grade teacher approached me last week and said that she had two salamanders that she couldn’t handle taking care of any more—would I like them? Absolutely!
Ten seconds later.
What the hell did I say yes for? Just what I need. More animals. More food to buy. More stuff to transport between home and school. More stuff to worry about when I’m gone…
In addition to painting the room multiple times last week, I also spent quite a bit of time researching salamanders and searching for and setting up a terrarium.
After much effort and a $40 waterfall, I now have a gorgeous terrarium in my classroom. All the moss a fairy queen could ever want (which is what I read that salamanders like. Turns out, they love it, and simply want to burry beneath it all day and come out at night—perfect choice for a classroom pet [groan]). A gorgeous waterfall to add tranquility and help avoid water stagnation and unpleasant smells (turns out, I have Tiger Salamanders; they don’t need or particularly want water—mine are gonna have water, damn it, since I can’t find the waterfall’s receipt…and they’re gonna like it). Actually, I should say salamander, singular. The little one refused to eat and died this weekend. Thank goodness I came in Saturday. He was already fuzzy and gross. Two more days and we would have had to condemn the classroom. I read that if their environment wasn’t ideal, that this could be the case. He’d spent a couple months before (as a waterdog) in a Tupperware cake top. I’m citing cause of death as over excitement from being moved into an Eden of sorts (ungrateful little shit—not to speak ill of the dead).
I bought some rather pretty feeder fish to keep in the ‘lake’ part of the terrarium—both to serve as a snack alternative for my now single salamander (maybe I should name it Mr. Witt) and to provide some actual movement while our brilliantly chosen pet hides under moss all damn day. When my favorite student I’ve ever had (don’t believe that—teachers don’t have favorites) asked me Friday while I was concerned the about the fish, I told him that I wanted the fish to have a good life while they were in our classroom.
He responded, “A good life!?! They’re in an enclosed environment with a giant creature stalking them. Wouldn’t you be horrified?”
I love that kid! I think I peed my pants laughing. Then was proud of his verbiage and descriptive skills.
Maybe I should name the fish Mr. Witt instead…

dangers of digging

I know people think I bring it on myself. That I choose to not let go. Sometimes, I wonder if they are right. However, today has been so great! I actually had a real work out, worked on editing the book and posted more to the blog for potential feedback, sang and sang to Glee with the windows down. All in all I realized that I was pretty happy and content. I called my brother and asked if he wanted to get together before we meet for sushi tonight to redeem the pottery painting certificate he gave me for my birthday or Christmas, I don’t remember. I was in such a good mood, I wanted to paint. Since I’m so very organized, I had to dig through three or four different drawers to find it. It took so many that I’d decided I’d lost it (not something I wanted to tell my brother). In my search, through my underwear drawer (I throw bills and such any place except where I can see them), I found two different letters from hwmnbn. I don’t even remember getting them, let alone saving them. They were from two completely different times. I thought I’d gotten rid of all the things he’d written me. Both of them talked explicitly about how he wanted to spend his life with me. How he planned on marrying me. How he knew we’d have our ups and down, and how we’d fall in and out of love. How he was in it for the long run. How he’d never before loved anyone like he loved me, never knew he could feel so safe with someone as he did in my arms. How he promised he never leave. Of course, I was in tears by the end. It hurt so much to see those letters. All the broken promises. However, it was validating. I’d begun to wonder if I’d made it all up. Misconstrued things he’d said, pushing my own meaning onto his actions. That’d I’d just been too blind to see that he never really loved me, never really wanted me. That he’d never really promised forever, that I’d just heard what I wanted to hear. I didn’t. He really did say those things, and I guess, meant them. At the time. These letters weren’t from early on when he would have been speaking out of rose-colored glasses either. I’m glad to know I wasn’t as crazy as I’d begun to think and that I didn’t imagine his love. However, I really don’t understand. I don’t know how you choose to love and commit to someone and then choose not to. I know it’s common, and I wish I that I had it in me honestly, life would be easier. I just don’t know how to do it.

isn't that special?

I was talking to my mom on the phone as I drove home from the gym yesterday. She asked if I wanted to come to dinner. I said I couldn’t; I was going out to dinner with a friend.
After a few moments of silence, in a sorta forced friendly voice, she asked, “Do you have a special friend?”
My brain did one of those misfiring things. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you have a new special friend.”
“That’s what I thought you said!” I burst out laughing.
In a nearly hurt voice, “What? I thought that was what I was supposed to say. I thought I was doing good. I’m kinda old-fashioned you know. What do you want me to call it?”
At this, I completely lost it. It was probably a miracle I didn’t plow into the median.
After a few minutes, when I still couldn’t get myself under control, she simply changed tactics. “I think you do.”
“I don’t mom, really.”
Laughing herself now, “I think you’re lying. You do.”
“Trust me, I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, mom, my feelings for [hwmnbn] haven’t changed at all.”
“Oh. Have you seen him lately?”
“No.” Laughter quickly gave way to tears. “Not since he started dating someone else.” I guess I should have said ‘not since he acquired a new special friend.’

I honestly haven’t been able to stop smiling about this conversation, at least the first part. It was so strange to hear those words from my mother. Strange to think that my relationship with [hwmnbn] could possibly be summed up as a special friend.

I truly love my mother. She is the most wonderful and strongest woman in the world. While awkward and hilarious, her question took so much of both (love and strength) from her.

on with the show

I feel like I have moved into my classroom this week. I have repainted, repapered, re-everything. It is gorgeous, just how I wanted it. And I ended up doing one small chocolate wall. I’m exhausted (between endless hours here and then doing massage), but it was so worth it!
Maybe it’s because I’ve been too busy to even breathe, but my mind has been able to be pretty blank this week. Which is relief. The past few had been non-stop. I needed a break (more than a break). I hope it lasts, at least a lot longer this time. I’m hoping to have some time to spend on editing the first book this weekend and posting some of it, but who knows. I have a full weekend lined up with a few of my most favorite people. Followed by Monday off work at the zoo with my nephew (his first time). Perfection.