I think about blogging almost everyday.
My kids at school do something almost every period that I think-- I've got to write this down.
Unfortunately, I get home in the afternoons with zero desire to look at a computer screen. And so, day after day, my stories and thoughts get put off until they don't feel relevant anymore.
So, although anyone who read this blog often has surely given up on me by now, here I am. Back again.
This year has been a year of phenomenal growth and change. It's unreal to look back at this time last year and realize just how different it all is.
This year, I've gotten a Master's degree, my first grown-up job, a new last name, and a bonus family. We added a dog to our little brood-- tallying our family up to four: Alex, Lindsey, Macy, and Gryff-- and just this week cut our first Christmas tree as a married couple. The verdict is still out on how Macy and Gryff will handle said tree. Two days later, it's still standing... so there's that at least.
We made it to one Auburn game, and we went to Tuscaloosa for the Iron Bowl, although we didn't bother going to the game. As a split couple, we've now made it through two Iron Bowls without going our separate ways... although, after a season like this for MY team, it wasn't like I had a lot invested in this year's Iron Bowl.
This year, I took my first trip to New Orleans... and quickly discovered that I'm not particularly fond of New Orleans. And I stayed in a hotel by myself for the first time at a conference in Montgomery. I've become a coffee drinker-- that's possibly happened in the last 24 hours-- and even developed a liking for white wine. Liking may be too strong a word, but I can drink it. People have always said it's a "developed" taste... I've never had to "develop" a taste for Coca-Cola or sweet tea, so drinking wine seems like a hassle... But the glasses are pretty, so there you have it.
My hair is longer than it's ever been because my husband has never seen it in the bob that I kept for nearly 24 years and, in his mind, associates short hair with mom's and old ladies... So the mere mention of a "trim" gets reprimanded. I periodically set a deadline-- "Fine, I'll let it grow until... But THEN I'm cutting it off, like it or not!"-- but I always chicken out. By now, I've put in a lot of time to get it this long... so I'm, quite literally, attached to it.
I've also grown quite attached to my students and my co-workers. When I started my school counseling journey, I was high school 100%, As I did my internships, I quickly decided that elementary school was the way to go. Although I would NEVER say I was disappointed to get my job this summer, I will say that I was hopeful that it would lead to an eventual transfer to an age-group more to my liking. However, three months in, I can't imagine myself anywhere else. Life in middle school is an absolute circus, but I love it. All of it. The hormones. The break-ups. Everything.
We've recently started attending a new church and, with it, a new Sunday school group. The Sunday school class is for "potential new members" but, let me tell you, it is not for the faint of heart. There's homework, and the 8-week class wraps up with an interview with the elders. While this was off-putting to me at first, I have quickly grown fond of the in-depth discussions and rigor of the teaching-- WHAT do we believe, WHY do we believe it, etc. And even for those of us that grew up in the church-- maybe ESPECIALLY for those of us that grew up in the church-- these are still questions that we don't necessarily search ourselves for. It's a small church, but the community is awesome and the teaching is God-breathed. We do our "homework" together when we do our quiet time at night, and we are greatly looking forward to how the Lord will use this in our lives, and, more so, how the Lord will use US in the life of the Church.
So there ya have it. A little life update.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Welcome Home.
This past weekend, my sweet husband and I made my yearly pilgrimage back to the Mothership.
Auburn. Glorious Auburn.
From the moment we drove into town, everything went wrong.
We sat in traffic for an hour on our way into town. We passed three wide open parking spots in downtown on our way in, but couldn't find a spot for blocks when we came back to town for supper after our hour-long wait. Our hotel was awful. Awful. The hallways smelled like smoke-- just not a typical cigarette smoke. Not a burning smoke either. Like a drug smoke. And the rooms were worse. It was like walking into an 8th grader's armpit-- I work with middle schoolers; trust me, I know. The floor in our bathroom was sticky, there were stains on the carpet, and the air was damp. After dinner Friday, we sat on the steps of Samford Hall for over an hour, just refusing to go back to our hotel room.
Saturday, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, which makes for a beautiful day but an unbearable four quarters in the upper deck at Jordan-Hare. We left sweaty and sunburned. Very sunburned. STILL sunburned. And the game... I don't even have to tell you about the game. It was ugly.
But did I stay until the bitter end? Absolutely. I sang the fight song as the defeated players piled back into the locker room. And I was thrilled to go downtown afterward, even if it meant hanging out with a bunch of Arkansas Hogs.
Because Auburn isn't just football to me. Auburn is home. Interestingly, the "theme" at Auburn this year is "Welcome Home." We're known throughout the country as the 'Auburn Family' because it's something we pride ourselves on, because it's something we insist on. And for four years, Auburn was my home. Probably the four most significant years of my life, from a developmental standpoint. Auburn is where I "found" myself, as some people like to say. The friends I have today are the ones I had at Auburn: the ones I met in the ADPi chapter room at Berta Dunn Hall, the ones I spent endless hours studying with at RBD, the ones I spent countless weekends with at Jordan-Hare. Where we rolled Toomer's when Daniel found out he was cancer-free, where we spent "Terrific Tuesdays" at the intramural fields, where BreakFeast first kicked off.
Someone said to me last year, "Lindsey, do you realize that you live in a red state?" My mind first jumped to politics, but I guess she read the confusion on my face and followed up with, "You know, Alabama has beat Auburn in every sport this year." I never went back to check the statistics. Maybe she was right; I'd like to think she skipped one somewhere where we pulled through, but the truth is: it doesn't matter. Because it wouldn't matter to me if Alabama beat Auburn in every sport we played for the next ten years. I'd still be an Auburn fan.
Win or lose, every trip to Auburn would still feel like a homecoming. Even with a terrible hotel room and horrible traffic and painful sunburns.
Auburn. Glorious Auburn.
From the moment we drove into town, everything went wrong.
We sat in traffic for an hour on our way into town. We passed three wide open parking spots in downtown on our way in, but couldn't find a spot for blocks when we came back to town for supper after our hour-long wait. Our hotel was awful. Awful. The hallways smelled like smoke-- just not a typical cigarette smoke. Not a burning smoke either. Like a drug smoke. And the rooms were worse. It was like walking into an 8th grader's armpit-- I work with middle schoolers; trust me, I know. The floor in our bathroom was sticky, there were stains on the carpet, and the air was damp. After dinner Friday, we sat on the steps of Samford Hall for over an hour, just refusing to go back to our hotel room.
Saturday, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, which makes for a beautiful day but an unbearable four quarters in the upper deck at Jordan-Hare. We left sweaty and sunburned. Very sunburned. STILL sunburned. And the game... I don't even have to tell you about the game. It was ugly.
But did I stay until the bitter end? Absolutely. I sang the fight song as the defeated players piled back into the locker room. And I was thrilled to go downtown afterward, even if it meant hanging out with a bunch of Arkansas Hogs.
Because Auburn isn't just football to me. Auburn is home. Interestingly, the "theme" at Auburn this year is "Welcome Home." We're known throughout the country as the 'Auburn Family' because it's something we pride ourselves on, because it's something we insist on. And for four years, Auburn was my home. Probably the four most significant years of my life, from a developmental standpoint. Auburn is where I "found" myself, as some people like to say. The friends I have today are the ones I had at Auburn: the ones I met in the ADPi chapter room at Berta Dunn Hall, the ones I spent endless hours studying with at RBD, the ones I spent countless weekends with at Jordan-Hare. Where we rolled Toomer's when Daniel found out he was cancer-free, where we spent "Terrific Tuesdays" at the intramural fields, where BreakFeast first kicked off.
Someone said to me last year, "Lindsey, do you realize that you live in a red state?" My mind first jumped to politics, but I guess she read the confusion on my face and followed up with, "You know, Alabama has beat Auburn in every sport this year." I never went back to check the statistics. Maybe she was right; I'd like to think she skipped one somewhere where we pulled through, but the truth is: it doesn't matter. Because it wouldn't matter to me if Alabama beat Auburn in every sport we played for the next ten years. I'd still be an Auburn fan.
Win or lose, every trip to Auburn would still feel like a homecoming. Even with a terrible hotel room and horrible traffic and painful sunburns.
Count your blessings.
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your blessings, see what God hath done!
I knew what I was getting into when I took my job. For that matter, I knew what I was getting into when I started grad school. It's not like I stumbled into this profession on accident; I actively sought it out. Daily, someone says to me, "I don't know how you do what you do." And the underlying sentiment there is not some sort of awe, not that they think I'm some kind of hero. The message between the lines is, "What kind of freak wants to do this job?"
And to be honest, I frequently ask myself that question.
For all the fun I have with my coworkers and getting to know my students and --hopefully-- getting to help students learn and grow, there isn't a single day that goes by that I'm not completely overwhelmed. Not by the amount of work, though it is looming at times, or the running around, but simply by the stories with which I am entrusted. Every day, a student walks into my office and lays their broken, bleeding heart down on my desk.
Sometimes it's silly and frivolous and I have to fight unbelievably hard not to roll my eyes.
"So-and-so and I have been best friends for a week now, and last period she said she's not my best friend anymore."
Sometimes it's more serious.
"So-and-so is telling everyone that I'm pregnant. And I'm not. At least, I think I'm not."
And sometimes it's the kind of thing that makes me want to lock myself in a closet and break down walls all at once. It's the kind of thing that knocks the breath out of me and leaves me willing myself not to throw up right there in front of the student. The kind of thing that leaves me crying in the corner behind the filing cabinet when I finally get a moment to myself.
It's incest and neglect and abuse and vicious, vicious cruelty.
Lying in the floor in the fetal position isn't an option for me, but I find myself running to my mental fetal position anytime my office clears out. Going to my happy place, my memories of what a childhood SHOULD be. What each of those children DESERVE. And what I got for some reason.
Memories drenched in sunshine and to the tune of my dad's loud laugh and my mom's sweet lullaby. She would play, "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus," on the piano in the dining room and we'd sing along, each trying to drown the other out. Memories that stretch out down long interstates to Jamestown, Atlanta, Memphis, Destin, Orlando... and sibling rivalry was placated with travel games and gummy Lifesavers. The time Adam and I got his-and-her windsuits and cowboy boots for Christmas... and decided to wear them together. The way we took turns telling the Christmas story and acting it out with the pieces of the porcelain Nativity. The forts we built under the magnolia tree in my grandmother's yard. The times Dad let us stay up and watch the Tonight Show when Mom was away on business trips.
I relive these over and over again in my office as I sort out the details of who to call first: the parent, the principal, DHR, and so on. And I play them like a song on repeat in my mind as I try to go to sleep at night, here in my cozy bed with my perfect husband in my perfect house.
And it's astonishing, really, that I should ever complain when my complaints amount to whether or not I have the right black boots for this fall season.
So here I sit, after another exhausting day, counting how blessed I am. For whatever reason. And thanking God for being an all-powerful, all-knowing God who can use ALL things-- even the ugliest, most broken situation-- for His glory. And I just pray that in some way, I'm useful to these kids, even if the only thing I do is listen and share the burden of making those memories my own.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Routines.
All through college, I longed for a set routine. Just as soon as I got used to one set of classes and alarm clocks, the semester changed and with it my schedule and routine. Grad school was the same, and internship almost killed me between internship, an after-school job, planning a wedding, and sharing joint custody of weekends with Alex, who was living in Birmingham at the time.
Now that I'm a grown-up with a grown-up job and grown-up responsibilities, I have at last found a set routine. Sort of.
Most of my days go like this...
5:50-- Alarm #1.
5:59-- Snooze #1.
6:00-- Alarm #2.
Turn on Home Improvement-- the only thing other than local news and infomercials on before 7 am-- and begin the process of getting ready. I have whittled this process down to as little time as possible by showering, packing my bag and lunch, and picking out my clothes before I go to bed. At 6:34, I'm rounding through the kitchen to grab my lunchbox and my usual breakfast to-go: peanut butter crackers or granola bar and water.
I clock in at DMS at 7:00. The latest I've been is 7:03 which is a pretty serious accomplishment for me.
At school, there's no such thing as a routine in the counselor's office. When I get to my office by 7:05, I usually have a student or two waiting on me, in need of a schedule change (most requests: denied) or a listening ear for a bully report. Before long, I'm paged to the office for a withdrawal or enrollment. Before the end of first period, I have usually met with at least one teacher and two students. If I find a moment when my office is clear, I file paperwork. We're being monitored this semester, so I have to be sure that every-- all 480+-- permanent record has exactly what it needs, from up-to-date blue slip to home language survey to birth certificate. The cycle repeats itself from period to period with an occasional exception: parent conference or phone call, sitting in on disciplinary action, or contacting DHR. And sometimes if I'm really lucky, I get to go in a classroom for guidance lessons.
This week when I asked a group of students what my job was, they replied, "You're the one that makes the schedules."
Exactly. That's why I went to graduate school: to learn how to make your schedules. Unfortunately, that kind of thing sucks up a lot of my time.
I say none of that to say that I'm super productive and efficient; in fact, I often can't finish one thing before something else comes up. I'm only saying that my schedule at school is chaotic on a good day.
But I love it. I love getting there at 7 am and getting so invested in my work that before I realize it, it's 6th period, and when I sit down-- or sometimes stand at the counter in the teacher's lounge-- for a quick lunch, I look at my phone to see that it's 1:45. If there wasn't for lots of snacking along the way, I'd starve to death over my daily half-eaten lunch.
I leave school between 4 and 5. If I leave closer to 4 than 5, I get home in time to change and go to spin at 5. If I leave closer to 5, I just assume that I've put in enough work for the day and go home and crash in front of a Gossip Girl rerun.
Alex's schedule has been pretty much as crazy as mine lately, so we usually get home around the same time. We cook dinner two or three times a week, and on other nights we have what my mom always called "Whatever You Can Find" nights. These usually look something like breakfast for dinner, PB & J, leftovers (a staple at my house growing up but something Alex is still grappling with) or the occasional outing to Subway or Domino's.
Alex has been playing basketball with a group of guys once a week, and Mom comes over on Wednesdays for Girls' Night: I cook, and we watch So You Think You Can Dance or catch up on my cousin Danielle's latest and greatest adventures as a contestant on Big Brother (she's in the Top 3! woop woop!).
At the end of the night, we try to fit in our quiet time right before bed. I know that I'm outing myself just by my phrasing: "try to fit in" isn't exactly the way we want our spiritual lives to work out, but that's something we're actively working on. I'm reading "Breaking Free" by Beth Moore (surprise!) and Alex is working through "Radical" by David Platt. I've read it before, so I know exactly what he means when he looks at me and says, "Well, I guess we need to pack our bags and move to China."
By 9:30, the bags and lunch boxes are packed and clothes laid out, and Alex catches up on sports blogs while I read (currently reading: Cleopatra, a Biography). And soon after that, it's lights out in the Ruggles home. Macy, of course, spends her time between 10:00 pm and 6:00 am vacillating between guarding the house and chasing her shadow. Sometimes I even wake up around 2:00 am to find her standing on my chest, just to make sure I'm still breathing. She's thoughtful that way.
Meanwhile, we make a pretty good pair when it comes to chores. Sure, Alex's standard of clean is what most people would classify as "just short of disgusting," but he is most helpful when asked. We tag team a lot of things: I cook, he cleans the kitchen. I do the laundry, he folds the cloths. I sweep, he vacuums. And so on.
On weekends, our routine has been pretty standard: get out of town. Not usually by choice, but because of weddings or ballgames or some other social event. I guess that's "by choice," technically, but what I mean is that we don't have some burning need to leave town. In fact, we often find ourselves wishing we had a weekend when we could just sleep in, play in our yard, get things done around the house, and just hang out. If we could get through wedding and football season, we may find one of those weekends... of course, by the end of football season, it'll be engagement party season and then the cycle starts over again with wedding season. I guess we'll just embrace that we are very blessed to have wonderful people in our life that keep our social calendar full.
So that's that. Friday night's routine changes from week to week: we either go to Birmingham to start the weekend festivities early, have supper club with "the gang," double date with other old, married folk, or have Date Night. And tonight's my favorite: Date Night.
Here's hoping your weekend is serendipitous.
Now that I'm a grown-up with a grown-up job and grown-up responsibilities, I have at last found a set routine. Sort of.
Most of my days go like this...
5:50-- Alarm #1.
5:59-- Snooze #1.
6:00-- Alarm #2.
Turn on Home Improvement-- the only thing other than local news and infomercials on before 7 am-- and begin the process of getting ready. I have whittled this process down to as little time as possible by showering, packing my bag and lunch, and picking out my clothes before I go to bed. At 6:34, I'm rounding through the kitchen to grab my lunchbox and my usual breakfast to-go: peanut butter crackers or granola bar and water.
I clock in at DMS at 7:00. The latest I've been is 7:03 which is a pretty serious accomplishment for me.
At school, there's no such thing as a routine in the counselor's office. When I get to my office by 7:05, I usually have a student or two waiting on me, in need of a schedule change (most requests: denied) or a listening ear for a bully report. Before long, I'm paged to the office for a withdrawal or enrollment. Before the end of first period, I have usually met with at least one teacher and two students. If I find a moment when my office is clear, I file paperwork. We're being monitored this semester, so I have to be sure that every-- all 480+-- permanent record has exactly what it needs, from up-to-date blue slip to home language survey to birth certificate. The cycle repeats itself from period to period with an occasional exception: parent conference or phone call, sitting in on disciplinary action, or contacting DHR. And sometimes if I'm really lucky, I get to go in a classroom for guidance lessons.
This week when I asked a group of students what my job was, they replied, "You're the one that makes the schedules."
Exactly. That's why I went to graduate school: to learn how to make your schedules. Unfortunately, that kind of thing sucks up a lot of my time.
I say none of that to say that I'm super productive and efficient; in fact, I often can't finish one thing before something else comes up. I'm only saying that my schedule at school is chaotic on a good day.
But I love it. I love getting there at 7 am and getting so invested in my work that before I realize it, it's 6th period, and when I sit down-- or sometimes stand at the counter in the teacher's lounge-- for a quick lunch, I look at my phone to see that it's 1:45. If there wasn't for lots of snacking along the way, I'd starve to death over my daily half-eaten lunch.
I leave school between 4 and 5. If I leave closer to 4 than 5, I get home in time to change and go to spin at 5. If I leave closer to 5, I just assume that I've put in enough work for the day and go home and crash in front of a Gossip Girl rerun.
Alex's schedule has been pretty much as crazy as mine lately, so we usually get home around the same time. We cook dinner two or three times a week, and on other nights we have what my mom always called "Whatever You Can Find" nights. These usually look something like breakfast for dinner, PB & J, leftovers (a staple at my house growing up but something Alex is still grappling with) or the occasional outing to Subway or Domino's.
Alex has been playing basketball with a group of guys once a week, and Mom comes over on Wednesdays for Girls' Night: I cook, and we watch So You Think You Can Dance or catch up on my cousin Danielle's latest and greatest adventures as a contestant on Big Brother (she's in the Top 3! woop woop!).
At the end of the night, we try to fit in our quiet time right before bed. I know that I'm outing myself just by my phrasing: "try to fit in" isn't exactly the way we want our spiritual lives to work out, but that's something we're actively working on. I'm reading "Breaking Free" by Beth Moore (surprise!) and Alex is working through "Radical" by David Platt. I've read it before, so I know exactly what he means when he looks at me and says, "Well, I guess we need to pack our bags and move to China."
By 9:30, the bags and lunch boxes are packed and clothes laid out, and Alex catches up on sports blogs while I read (currently reading: Cleopatra, a Biography). And soon after that, it's lights out in the Ruggles home. Macy, of course, spends her time between 10:00 pm and 6:00 am vacillating between guarding the house and chasing her shadow. Sometimes I even wake up around 2:00 am to find her standing on my chest, just to make sure I'm still breathing. She's thoughtful that way.
Meanwhile, we make a pretty good pair when it comes to chores. Sure, Alex's standard of clean is what most people would classify as "just short of disgusting," but he is most helpful when asked. We tag team a lot of things: I cook, he cleans the kitchen. I do the laundry, he folds the cloths. I sweep, he vacuums. And so on.
On weekends, our routine has been pretty standard: get out of town. Not usually by choice, but because of weddings or ballgames or some other social event. I guess that's "by choice," technically, but what I mean is that we don't have some burning need to leave town. In fact, we often find ourselves wishing we had a weekend when we could just sleep in, play in our yard, get things done around the house, and just hang out. If we could get through wedding and football season, we may find one of those weekends... of course, by the end of football season, it'll be engagement party season and then the cycle starts over again with wedding season. I guess we'll just embrace that we are very blessed to have wonderful people in our life that keep our social calendar full.
So that's that. Friday night's routine changes from week to week: we either go to Birmingham to start the weekend festivities early, have supper club with "the gang," double date with other old, married folk, or have Date Night. And tonight's my favorite: Date Night.
Here's hoping your weekend is serendipitous.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Quarter Life Crisis
As I approach 25 at a neck-breaking pace (September 28-- you're gonna want to put that on your calendar), I'm getting somewhat reminiscent as I look back on my quarter-century lifetime. As many of you know, the soundtrack of my life for the past several years has been sung by America's sweetheart, Taylor Swift. From soul-mending break-up songs like "Dear John" and "Last Kiss" to the coming-of-age ballad "Never Grow Up" to the hopeful love song "Enchanted" (that one goes out to my boo thang, Al), Taylor has always sang as though she was literally ripping pages out of my diary. At her concert, Alex leaned over and said, "Is there seriously no song she sings that you CAN'T apply to your life??"
Answer: no.
That is, until now. It doesn't help that I'm painfully aware that in most senses of the word, I'm technically a grown-up: college graduate, gainfully employed, married. When Taylor announced last week that she would be releasing a new song, I only assumed it would be just like the others: about me. Something like, "Help: I'm an Educator," or "My Husband's Definition of Clean is Only Acceptable in a Frat House." Maybe that's a little far-fetched, but something along those lines.
Instead, I got "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together."
Sure, the song is catchy. I sing along, and of course I support Taylor in all that she does. (although, admittedly, I'm a little concerned about her recent interest in a young Kennedy-- Taylor, google "curse.") But this is the first time in my T-Swift fandom that I've not been able to relate. And frankly, it's not doing much for my quarter-life crisis.
Allow me to use another obsession to relate the situation. For years after Wendy's first venture to Never Land, she returned annually with Peter to visit the mermaids, pirates, fairies, and more. But eventually, Peter comes back to find Wendy all grown up, unable to return. She has to explain to Peter that she can't return to Never Land because she is, at long last, a grown up.
Have I outgrown Taylor Swift? Is her next album my Never Land?
Answer: no.
That is, until now. It doesn't help that I'm painfully aware that in most senses of the word, I'm technically a grown-up: college graduate, gainfully employed, married. When Taylor announced last week that she would be releasing a new song, I only assumed it would be just like the others: about me. Something like, "Help: I'm an Educator," or "My Husband's Definition of Clean is Only Acceptable in a Frat House." Maybe that's a little far-fetched, but something along those lines.
Instead, I got "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together."
Sure, the song is catchy. I sing along, and of course I support Taylor in all that she does. (although, admittedly, I'm a little concerned about her recent interest in a young Kennedy-- Taylor, google "curse.") But this is the first time in my T-Swift fandom that I've not been able to relate. And frankly, it's not doing much for my quarter-life crisis.
Allow me to use another obsession to relate the situation. For years after Wendy's first venture to Never Land, she returned annually with Peter to visit the mermaids, pirates, fairies, and more. But eventually, Peter comes back to find Wendy all grown up, unable to return. She has to explain to Peter that she can't return to Never Land because she is, at long last, a grown up.
Have I outgrown Taylor Swift? Is her next album my Never Land?
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Lost.
A few weeks ago, we decided to start Lost. Both Alex and I managed to completely miss the phenomenon when the show was actually in production, but luckily my dad's Amazon Prime account is hooking us up.
Each episode (so far) has started by spot lighting a particular character and flashing back to that character's life before he or she landed on the Island (via plane crash, for those of you who haven't emerged from under your rock in the last decade).
We're on episode 22, or something like that, of Season 1. The survivors have been on the island for a little over a month-- that's a little over a month with zero communication with the outside world. Just sand, jungle, and the occasional polar bear (you read that right-- the show is straight up nuts).
I just spent the last 30 minutes looking for my phone. I pulled up to my house, sent a quick text to Morgan, loaded my bags and grabbed the mail, and headed into my house. Threw the junk mail away and took the garbage out, watered the plants, and came back in to text my husband and complain that he had done none of those things.
But there was no phone.
I looked everywhere. I went from scanning the room to tearing cushions out of chairs. I checked rooms I haven't even been in today.
Friends, I went outside and went through the garbage. Not once. THREE times. Then, I brought it in and moved the garbage piece by piece into a different bag. Piece. By. Piece. We're talking old grapes, lunch meat boxes, and the bag I marinated my chicken in last night.
I checked my car three times-- moved everything from the front seat to the back seat and back again. Moved both seats all the way backward and forward.
Googled how to trace an iPhone.
On the fifth car check, I found it: wedged between the console and the seat, undetectable to the human eye.
At this point I'm sweaty, uncomfortable, and on the edge of a meltdown as I realize that I don't have a landline-- other than my cell phone and email, I have no way to contact the outside world. I'd already emailed my husband and Morgan, and after 30 minutes neither had checked their email.
I was LOST.
Sweaty and irritable, I might as well have been wrecked with Hurley, Kate, and the Others on Mystery Island. I felt like all civility was lost-- without my phone, I might as well have to hunt my own food and build a fire with flint and bamboo shoots.
Maybe I'm too dependent on my phone. BUT. In my defense, EVERYthing from my certification process emails to my work contacts is on that tiny machine.
My heart has just now slowed to a normal beat after that brush with disaster.
Each episode (so far) has started by spot lighting a particular character and flashing back to that character's life before he or she landed on the Island (via plane crash, for those of you who haven't emerged from under your rock in the last decade).
We're on episode 22, or something like that, of Season 1. The survivors have been on the island for a little over a month-- that's a little over a month with zero communication with the outside world. Just sand, jungle, and the occasional polar bear (you read that right-- the show is straight up nuts).
I just spent the last 30 minutes looking for my phone. I pulled up to my house, sent a quick text to Morgan, loaded my bags and grabbed the mail, and headed into my house. Threw the junk mail away and took the garbage out, watered the plants, and came back in to text my husband and complain that he had done none of those things.
But there was no phone.
I looked everywhere. I went from scanning the room to tearing cushions out of chairs. I checked rooms I haven't even been in today.
Friends, I went outside and went through the garbage. Not once. THREE times. Then, I brought it in and moved the garbage piece by piece into a different bag. Piece. By. Piece. We're talking old grapes, lunch meat boxes, and the bag I marinated my chicken in last night.
I checked my car three times-- moved everything from the front seat to the back seat and back again. Moved both seats all the way backward and forward.
Googled how to trace an iPhone.
On the fifth car check, I found it: wedged between the console and the seat, undetectable to the human eye.
At this point I'm sweaty, uncomfortable, and on the edge of a meltdown as I realize that I don't have a landline-- other than my cell phone and email, I have no way to contact the outside world. I'd already emailed my husband and Morgan, and after 30 minutes neither had checked their email.
I was LOST.
Sweaty and irritable, I might as well have been wrecked with Hurley, Kate, and the Others on Mystery Island. I felt like all civility was lost-- without my phone, I might as well have to hunt my own food and build a fire with flint and bamboo shoots.
Maybe I'm too dependent on my phone. BUT. In my defense, EVERYthing from my certification process emails to my work contacts is on that tiny machine.
My heart has just now slowed to a normal beat after that brush with disaster.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
never grow up.
When I was in Kindergarten and first grade, my dad taught at Cleveland High School. Kindergarten thru twelfth grade classes were all on the same campuses, separated by a breezeway and a shared cafeteria. So I never had to ride the bus-- until ninth grade, I rode to school with my dad. Kindergarten and first grade at Cleveland stick out to me though because I loved faculty meetings so much. Now, most teachers' kids dread these days because it means staying in that dreaded building for even longer.
Not me. Not with an arsenal of movies at my fingertips. See, like me, my dad is a lover of fine films, and he cultivated this love in me from a young age. On faculty meeting days, we'd walk down to the library, and I'd pick out a movie: Ricky Ticky Tavvy was common but it scared me unless my brother watched it with me, Cinderella was, of course, highly favored, and then there was Peter Pan.
Anyone that knows me can tell you that Peter Pan is my all-time favorite anything: the book, any adaptation of the movie, the play (my fabulous parents took me to see in Atlanta, and ohmygosh, I still remember when Peter took flight right in front of my very eyes), and even the ride at Disney World.
In fact, I found out today that someone had just returned from the Happiest Place on Earth. First question out of my mouth: Did you ride Peter Pan?!
Here's what you need to know about Cleveland Elementary's copy of Peter Pan: this is not the Disney classic that you're familiar with. No, it's possibly better. I can never decide. The 1960 version of Peter Pan starring a 47-year-old, but ever-delightful, Mary Martin. From "I Won't Grow Up" to "I've Gotta Crow" (favorite line: "Oh, the cleverness of me!") to "Ugg-a-Wugg" my five-year-old mind was captivated by J.M. Barrie's fantastical universe: Neverland.
Sidenote: this version of Peter Pan includes the California Raisins as part of the previews; consequently, I crave Raisinettes to this day whenever I watch Peter Pan.
Today on my way home from work, Mary Martin's 'Never Never Land' came on my iPod.
Y'all, I nearly cried. The lyrics are perfection. The story, unparalleled. It's not like I didn't pretend to live in a castle and daydream about Prince Charming, but when it comes to favorite fairy tales, Cinderella can keep her glass slippers. Ask me for my favorite story, and my mind goes zooming to the "first star to the left, then straight on til morning."
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