Light

There have been several times these last few weeks where I wanted to be anywhere or do anything else but what I've been doing. Many times, I thought it would be easier to lose myself at the bottom of a bottle or crawl into bed and hide under the covers forever. Or just stop. Give up and say that this is beyond my control. Or run away. I dream at night about waking up on a quiet beach or a mountain cabin or a foreign country.

They seem like easy choices on the surface. But if there's anything I've learned in life, it's that "easy" doesn't always equal "better".

Looking back, it's easy to say that I'm ending this year in pain. It's easy to look at myself and find all of the things I hate about myself -- all those things I wish I could change. I'm overly-sensitive and stubbornly proud and terrified of failing. Yes, those are things easy to see about me.

But "easy" doesn't always equal "accurate" either.

I am sensitive. I joke often that when God gave out feelings, I got in line for thirds. It's a part of myself that I've always been ashamed of. It's been scolded by bosses as unprofessional and taken advantage of by others. My sensitivity was a target, a soft spot, a trigger.  All my life, I viewed my mother as the "tough" one. She was the one I was afraid to cry in front of and hid my hurt from. I wanted, more than anything, to shield myself as she could. What I've learned, however, in the last few years (and weeks especially) is that my sensitivity has led me. It guides me in the questions I ask, the battles I choose, the decisions I make. It gives me the understanding and patience to sit bedside and not look away. It reminds me how lucky I am to have had 39  years of my father's love -- so much more than far too many have had, and it gives me the ability to give him permission to leave us when he's ready.  More than anything, it gives my mother an example to follow. This woman -- this wonderful and strong woman -- who held her feelings and fear at bay all of her life to shield her from pain is now defenseless. She is uncomfortable and unsure in her own feelings, but she is not alone in them. I am grateful to have grown up in a family who, while they may not have loved my sensitive nature, never forced me to abandon it.

I am stubbornly proud. To a fault, many times. I detest asking for help and resist accepting it when given. I believe fervently in making my own way, owing nothing to anyone, and standing on my own.  That, to me, is a success. But it's not, really, because when I look at my life, who am I without those around me? From my family to colleagues to friends I see often and those I see rarely and even those I've never even officially met. My stubbornness leads to me being a better teacher and a better competitor, but it also makes me stick and stay. And my pride, well, it forces me to think of others before myself, and for that I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be in a place I can still want more for someone else than need for myself. I'm not alone, however, and even on the days that I do crawl into bed and hide away, I know that I will always have someone to seek me out, take my hand, and pull me back into the world -- whether I ask them to or not because I'm also surrounded by people just as stubborn as me.

It would be so easy to judge myself or this year by only the sadness I feel now, but that's not fair or accurate. This year, I was loved by many friends, traveled to wonderful cities, ate delicious food, drank, danced, and laughed a thousand times more than I cried. I saw my favorite team win a national championship, and I sat court side on their journey. I challenged myself, and I met the challenges of others. I grew. I changed. I reflected. I was knocked down. I kept getting back up.

Yes, things seem dark now. This will not be the last dark day I see, no matter my hopefulness for 2016. But without acknowledging the dark, I cannot see the value of my light.

And I am surrounded by so, so much light.

I wish you light and love and laughter this year, my friends.

My Love Language

Unless you just met me 5 minutes ago, you know that my friends are the world to me. They know everything about me, and I know everything about them. And such familiarity creates unexpected things sometimes. Like, basically, a list of words and phrases that are such long-running inside jokes that they've become a shorthand language designed for maximum sarcasm/laughter.

They never fail to make me A) understand instantly or 2) laugh. Although sometimes they can still make me angry/embarrassed (i.e. "Bossier City"). Others hit that "All of the Above" target.

If you've been here long enough, you've been taught about the "chimp grin". It's a classic.

And there are others, some of which I cannot define either because they're embarrassing or I've forgotten their origin. Maybe both.

But here's a very short glossary of my tribe. There are basically only a few categories.

Words/Phrases you want to avoid hearing:

Super -- adj. A word used to imply that I detest what you're doing/asking me to do and I'll do it, but I'm probably thinking violent thoughts about you the whole time. Often accompanied by a deep sigh and an eyeroll. The amount of anger can be easily determined by the length of the word when pronounced. Language of origin: Sarcasm.

I'm just sayin' -- adj. 1) A phrase usually uttered after a statement implying "you're a dumbass". 2) A phrase synonymous with "I told you so", but without the annoying dance. Language or origin: Old Irritation.

You just have no idea -- adj. A statement of warning: You don't want this. Whatever I've endured, you don't want any part of it because now I'm pissed. Language of Origin: Heather.

Well, what had happened was... -- int. An often-used term by my students in school but first initiated by an exceptionally nasally little girl. Therefore, when used properly for maximum laugh, one must close off one's nose and drop all the word endings. "Wha ha happen wassss..." Language of Origin: Lying. See also: Nichols Junior High.

office time -- n. A signal that you need to poop. Language of origin: Travis Wheeler, a man with no concern for co-worker's nasal passages. See also: turlet.

#3's -- n. I'll let you figure this one out. See also: shooting #3's, Doritos (now with Olestra) Language of Origin: unknown

sacred duty -- n. brutal honesty guised as an unchangeable personality trait. Language of Origin: LJ, Dr. Phil

A perfume a girl should never wear -- adj. Girrrrl, you sad. Get yourself together. See also: desperation. Language of Origin: I'd rather not say.

DeanaRant -- n. A word used to embody a long, uninterrupted rant from Deana about something that has really been bothering her for a long, long time and has gone unspoken until some sort of alcohol has been introduced. See also: verbal diarrhea.  Language of Origin: Drunken Outrage

Words/Phrases to signal an awkward moment:

Well, you just never know... -- interjection. An often used phrase in order to signal that the person you're speaking to has no idea how badly you want out of this conversation, but you know that you will not be spared. Language of origin: Porchese.

Well, there's... and there's... -- n. An often failed strategy which indicates that you know there are choices, but you cannot, for the life of you, remember/think of a single one. Best used with a serious, but confused, look upon your face.  Language of origin: Caribbean

Wanger. -- 1) n. A penis. See also: penutis (pen-OOH-tis)

WANGER! 2) int. An unexpected appearance of a penis, usually negative. Usually accompanied by a shocked/disgusted gasp and this face:

Language of Origin: Harvey Keitel's wanger in The Piano.

My, aren't the decorations festive! -- int. Code for: "We've simply got to get out of here." Language of Origin: Kentucky

Cedarfied -- adj. You're drunk and fell down into a cedar bush, or anywhere really. Language of origin: Ancient Porchese.

I had -- maybe -- six Oreos -- n. A denial of personal responsibility for where any food item might have gone. Language of Origin: You Know Who You Are

Deep Woods Off -- n. Something that can, but should not be, used as an air freshener in a time of emergency. Language of Origin: Shame

Is that a tune in your head? -- int. 1) A way to state outright imply that, perhaps, you're singing off key. 2) a quick way to get me to stop my unconscious, and possibly annoying, humming. Language of Origin: Sacred Duty

Mark the time -- int. The signalling that an awkward moment has arrived, and its supreme awkwardness has been noted. Usually accompanied by an eyebrow raise and a glance at your wrist (whether you are wearing a watch or not). Language of origin: Camp Carter

Chimp Grin -- n. The unattractive face you make when awkward meets excitement. Language of Origin: Johnston Girls

Words/Phrases that make us smile:

Porchtime -- n. A place to do and say all the things that are only for us and those we know best. See also: Beer Blind, Book Club, Rooftime, JoeT's. Language of origin: Love.

Happy Freaking Halloween

Tonight's #Write30 topic is: "Your current relationship status; if single, discuss that too."

So...

Terrible half of Duke football + no trick-or-treaters + cheap, cheap wine = misery by candlelight

...it's complicated.

Ink

I hate needles. I'm a big ol' wuss when it comes to the idea of them. It's not so much the pain although I, admittedly, am a pretty big wimp about that too.

Actually, it makes me a little nauseated to think of a needle piercing my skin. There will be blood. There will be pain. Then there will be vomit. And if there's anything I like even less than needles, it might be vomiting.

So it should be pretty obvious that my body is tattoo-free. Because tattoos = needles which = vomit.

I feel sick just talking about it.

But the weird thing is that I'm completely enthralled by those tattoo shows like Inkmaster and Miami Ink. It might be similar to the fact that I constantly watch the Food Network even though I don't cook or that I obsess about Project Runway although my most favorite outfit is pajama pants and a t-shirt. I totally dig people who have talents that are worlds away from my own.

I'm also fascinated by other people's tattoos. Maybe it's just good artwork that attracts my attention, but it's probably more their story. Tattoos, like scars, always come with a pretty good story. I love to investigate other people's stories, unearthing who they are, piece by piece.

And how do you choose? Knowing that this will be on your body forever. That it will change and shift -- in both form and meaning -- as your life changes. How do you stay in love with something like that?  What happens when you don't? You can have it removed, but is it ever really gone?

Some people don't care. The experience is the experience, and whether it's good or bad, they are fine.

I am not these people.

Some people hem and haw and change their minds a million times, but in the end, they understand that if they don't like it, they can transform it.

I am not these people.

Still others wander through a store, picking things up, putting them in their cart, and deciding that maybe you don't really need it after all. Then they wander away only to return, pick it back up, and wander around some more. Rinse. Repeat.

These are my people.

Even if I could get drunk enough muster the courage to get into the chair and risk vomiting on a total stranger, I don't know that I could ever choose a design.

I window shop though. I click on a picture. I stare for a while, turning it over and over in my mind, wondering if could go through with it, only to put it back down and wander some more.

But these are a few I pick up often. They are, of course, all book-inspired because I think there's something beautiful about loving a line so much that you carry it with you always. And there's poetry in taking the ink from a page and printing it upon your skin. Mainly, though, it's because I'm a nerd.

But I'd be a nerd with a cool-ass tattoo. And maybe a little vomit on my shirt.

simple but powerful

From The Tempest 

"If people were rain, I was a drizzle and she was a hurricane."
One of my favorite descriptions ever.

And, of course, a little Atticus Finch

It Might Still Be a Little Tiger Beat-ish.

I am fascinated by human behavior. There's nothing I love to do more than just watch people and try to decide who they are by how they behave. And I'm not talking "hang out at an airport and make random stories about strangers" (although that's fun, too). I'm talking about whatever you do throughout the day, whatever you say, I'm storing it away in my brain in a little file marked, "YOU". Actually, my brain files are marked with your names, but the file folders are all bent and piled up randomly and the names on the tags have probably been marked through a couple of times because sometimes people don't get to stay in my brain, but I believe in recycling.

Yes, I am watching. Yes, I am judging and questioning and filing for future connections. I'm like the NSA but less secretive about it. Or more secretive. Or whatever. (Hi, NSA! *waves gratuitously*)

Anyway, I watch because you're fascinating.

So to choose just one person as the person I'm fascinated by is dang near impossible. There are many beautiful and kind people in my own everyday life I could write about (and probably already have on here). There are a few celebrities that I adore, but I don't really have any personal connection with them. And that feels just a little to Tiger Beat for my taste.

So maybe there's someone somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. Someone famous enough to give me a little thrill when she retweeted me on Twitter but still seems like someone who's not so uppity that we couldn't split a Reese's and hang out at an airport watching weirdos and making up stories.

I've been a fan of Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) for a long, long time. I cannot remember where I first found her writing, but whomever it was that pointed me to her should probably get several dollars a month from me. A "Thank You for Being Awesome" fee, if you will.

There are several things about Jenny that I love, but the fact that she and I barely missed each other at a tiny little state school in Central Texas always makes me feel like we could've been actual, real-life friends. Granted, I would've had to have been brave enough to talk to strangers first, but maybe it could have happened. If we were in the right class or had I run over her foot with my car.

I love that she swears unapologetically because swear words and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my two most favorite vices. I love that she gives all of her animals, both real and taxidermied, clever and completely appropriate names. (I'm a big Hunter S. Thomcat fan.)

She's delightfully odd with a penchant for dead animals in costume. Even creepy-as-shit dead animals. I love that she hails from a delightfully odd family who adore her in all forms.

Jenny is kind and thoughtful, even when it's only by accident. And she spreads that kindness somehow with just a few words and the feeling that it's just the right thing to do because someone needs to do it.

She takes on challenges even when she's unsure. She finds a way even when she has to build it herself. Even when that challenge is just getting Wil Wheaton to send her a picture of himself collating paper.

And now they're FRIENDS, by God.

She fights back with 15 foot tall metal chickens. Who does that? Badasses. Badasses fight the good fight with chickens named Beyonce.

But more than anything, Jenny fights, period. She fights for the voiceless. She fights for those that cannot get out of bed. She fights for those who would rather hide under their desk than stand on stage. She fights for anyone who is coming apart at the seams. And then she rallies the troops to help sew them back together.

She fights for them because she is one of them. And she's not ashamed of it.

Because the most fascinating thing about Jenny Lawson is that she is just Jenny-fucking-Lawson. Warts and all. I consider myself to be honest, but, in truth, most of my life, I've been what I've now deemed, "Dinner Party Honest".  You know, just honest enough to be respected, but not so honest that people aren't "WTF?" when you sit next to them at a dinner party. I'm still not that honest, but I'm on the road.

I'm a people-pleaser at the deepest core of myself, and what pleases others most of all is for you to be happy -- to be good -- to be even-keeled. So, for most of my life, I tried to be happy and good and even-keeled, even when I felt like I was cartwheeling down the side of a mountain and then hauling myself back up by my fingernails.

Reading Jenny's work told me a couple of things: A) I wasn't alone and 2) There can be joy and laughter in even the most absurdly awful moments. And it's okay -- more than okay -- to grab that joy by the throat and squeeze the Hell out of it. Give it a Copernicus-level strangle.

But more than anything, it told me that being whole isn't about hiding your cracks from others; it's about letting them show and treasuring those who helped pick up the pieces. Because none of us pick those pieces by ourselves. None of us. Nor should we.

In the time that I've followed Jenny's blog, she's raised thousands of dollars, bought dozens of weird-ass but incredible dead animals, written two best sellers, and empowered hundreds of thousands of men and women around the world.

And she retweeted me once (which is really just like a modern-day grown-up version of taping a Tiger Beat photo to your wall, but I don't give one damn. Tiger Beat Twitter for everyone.)

And it made me furiously happy.


(I've linked all of these within the post above, but I know how lazy some of y'all are about clicking on the link. So I made it easy on you. Enjoy. And if you don't, you're moving to the bottom of my brain files. Maybe.)

http://thebloggess.com/2010/05/the-traveling-red-dress/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-traveling-red-dress-revisited/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-end-and-the-beginning/

http://thebloggess.com/2013/12/accidentally-doing-good-things/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/02/her-name-is-juanita-juanita-weasel-unless-you-can-think-of-something-better/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/07/would-you-like-to-buy-a-monkey/

Deana Doesn't Live Here (And Probably Won't Ever)

All my life, I've been a Texan. I was born in the Panhandle. I spent two years in college in Central Texas. For the past 16 years, I've been here in North Texas.

Texas is big. I could move a dozen more times and still never leave. But I won't because moving's a hassle that I can only manage every decade or so.

As established in my last post, I haven't been all that many places. So the thought of living somewhere I've never visited leaves open, literally, a world of possibility. Therefore, in no particular order, I present the places I think I might live if I ever got up the energy to buy a lottery ticket and then win (so I wouldn't have to worry about getting a job or setting up a new bank account).

1. Italy

Pros: Pasta, vineyards, history
Cons: I don't speak Italian, people seem very loud and dramatic, historic grime, I'm not so church-y.

2. Chicago

Pros: Getting day drunk at Wrigley Field all summer
Cons: Crime, cold weather, all that neon green relish on the hot dogs

3. A tiny village in Ireland, or on a farm, or near a castle

Pros: Pubs, green space everywhere, no language barrier, Irish whiskey
Cons: Potholes, corned beef and cabbage, incessant Irish music, Guinness beer

4. Cape Cod

Pros: The ocean, small town feeling, I like drinking Cape Cods
Cons: I don't know anything about Cape Cod really, but it seems like it would smell very fishy.

5. Seattle

Pros: Creativity, all types of geography, liberal and intellectual atmosphere, Eddie Vedder
Cons: Seasonal Affective Disorder like whoa. Also: hipsters.

6. Charleston, SC

Pros: Food, literature,  all the sweet tea you can swim around in, the sea, finally took that damn flag down.
Cons: It seems... moist. Like all the time.

On second thought, I think I'll just stick to the 817 for a while longer.

* Also, since I've never actually been to any of these places, all of my thoughts about them are what I've seen on television, movies, and the internet. Or maybe, once, I read it in a book.  So forgive me if my dumbass American is showing.

Ten Things You Probably Maybe Know About Me. Or Not.

Tonight's #Write30 topic is "Ten Interesting Things About Me". I don't like that topic at all, but as Duke football completely drained all of my energy and ability to form deep thought, I'm going to stick with it.

1. I don't think I'm all that interesting. People tell me that I'm interesting, but I know a great many interesting people, and I'm not like them. So this list feels weird but whatever.

2. I can pinch you with my toes. Seriously, I have monkey-toes. If I were to lose my arms, I think I'd be okay. I don't think I'd be very inspiring as a disabled person, but I could probably still drive and stuff.

3. I have two brothers named "Jimmy". This is not news to anyone who has known me for a while, but other people do find it interesting. And, no, it was not by choice.

4. I've never traveled outside the United States. I've also never been anywhere east of the Mississippi River. I am a traveler who was born to two non-traveling parents, but I'm starting to get the hang of it.

5. I don't like coffee flavor of any kind. I don't drink coffee or eat coffee candy or ice cream. I've never ordered anything more than a hot chocolate at Starbucks. The only time I ever drank a full cup of coffee was during an all-night drive home, and I don't think I blinked for 334 miles.

6. I also don't really like beer. Or Asian food. Both really upset my stomach, and although I've tried a million different kinds, the result is always the same -- typically me, on the bathroom floor, in tears.

7. I've never seen Star Wars or The Godfather all the way through. I don't tell people because I fear their shameful stares and mockery.

8. I was once terrorized by the Horned Frog mascot from TCU at a Texas Tech game in Lubbock. He followed me from the top of Jones Stadium all the way to my seat. I was standing up in the aisle, waiting to go to my seat, and he slapped me on the butt. I was 17 at the time, and everyone around me laughed, so I did too. If I saw that mascot come near me now, I'd probably preemptively knee him in the crotch just for good measure.

9. I have a deep phobia about clowns and marionette puppets and dumpsters. I have recurring nightmares about finding a dead body in a dumpster. I'm just there, trying to throw away my trash, and then, BOOM, dead body. Probably too many crime shows in my brain. Clowns and marionettes, though, are just regular old, run-of-the-mill creepy.

10. I wanted to be an optometrist when I was a kid. Then I realized how not great I was at math and science and changed my mind. But I still really geek out at my eye exams. Like, I LOVE going to get my eyes checked.

There Is Goodness Here

I am a firm believer in the heart. It has led me my whole life, and I am rarely failed by it. I don't care about your bank account or your home or your career. My eyes deceive me; they are too easily fooled. If you show me your heart, however, my heart will know you.

And this is what it knows: there is goodness here.

A few weeks ago, a young man from my hometown was critically injured in a high school football game. Although I don't know him, I know his family. I know my town. I know its heart. I know when it's broken.

I know when it's healing. And I know when it doesn't heal on its own. From nearly every opponent on its schedule, and from every corner of my Panhandle home, there has been love heaped upon their hearts.

My heart began here. My heart still lingers here. There is goodness here.

Sixteen years ago, I walked into my school. I met my children and my friends. My heart knew that I had come home again. There were days that my eyes deceived me. There were days my ears only heard doubt. But my heart...my heart could not be fooled.

I heard what people said about us.

I knew what people thought of us.

I felt what could become of us.

And my children and my friends, they showed me their hearts. And my heart could not be fooled.

Tonight, I watched as those children stood in honor of our dear Maria, who makes our building shine. They had not known who they were giving for -- only that it was needed to give -- and so they gave what they could, even when it meant less for themselves.

There is goodness here.

I watched as my friends handed her a check that may not solve her problems but might ease her soul even if for only a moment. And I felt her arms around me as she walked down the line of faculty members giving bigger and better hugs than any of us are strong enough to give. Monday she will show up again, the same as she has every day since before her diagnosis as well as after, ready to make our building shine.

There is goodness here.

There is goodness where I began. There is goodness where I now am.

My heart sees your heart, and my heart cannot be fooled.

Because there is goodness here.

Firsts

Time moves in circles and swirls, overlapping and entwining within its own coils.  A ribbon upon the breeze or a snake eating its own tail, time and memories can be beautiful and dreamy or  fearful and poised to strike without warning.

I don't know what my first memory is. How do you know the beginning has begun when you are the main character in the story? How can you pick out a moment -- one moment -- and call it first? Some of the first things I remember is the heat of the vinyl seats on my feet in my mother's T-bird and the sound of her voice singing along with the radio, windows down,  my hair flying in the breeze.  But then there are those firsts that I run far from -- boogeymen, real or imagined? Dark corners and bright smiles, one as dangerous as the next.  I'm too old for that ride in the T-bird to be first. I'm too small  for the monsters in my closet. Their order has no bearing or landmark, and my memories free fall through my mind.

Memories are a tricky thing. They unpack themselves slowly, strangely, never fitting back into the bag quite as they should. They twist and stretch and shrink to the shape of the cracks in your heart, leaving you patched but not perfect. Leaving you whole but not full.

First memories flow through every crevice, every cranny, carving and smoothing stone, cutting new paths, new experiences, new life.  They do not stop for such a strange and silly thing like order.

The first time I said goodbye or hello. The first time I saw your face or laughed with you until we cried. The first time I passed a complete stranger wearing my mother's perfume, breaking me apart with longing to be a child again.  The first time I felt your hand brush across mine . First dances, first kisses, first love, first steps, first cries into the world. These are the first memories I collect. The ones I hide away, talismans  to trade with the snake charmer called Time.

The Hurt Locker

I have a kid in one of my classes. She's a good kid, mostly. She has a good heart. She wants to be successful, deep down. But she's a kid I handle with care. Not like I'd hold a newborn baby or a crystal vase. More like how I might handle an explosive.

In fact, in my mind, I call her "Hurt Locker".

If you haven't seen that movie, here's a clip. It's disturbing and beautiful and bizarre and heartbreaking.

Some days, she's a firecracker. Snappy but celebratory and slightly terrifying. But only slightly. If someone were to light the fuse, the damage would be light. Unless of course you try to grip it too tightly. Then you're bound to lose a thumb, but that's on you.

There are days when you can see all of the trip wires. They lay there exposed, clumsily hidden, just waiting for some dummy to stumble across them, detonating the blast that leaves the rest of us covered in the blood and guts of the moment. Shocked. Gasping. Alive, but glad to not have been caught in the blast zone.

And then there are days when she is an IED, disguised and waiting. Full of the shrapnel made from pain and bad choices and broken promises. Designed for maximum damage. 

Other times, she has the blast pack strapped to her chest. She believes in her cause; she's willing to sacrifice for the fight. She sees herself the hero, the martyr. She's ready. Others might get caught in the immediate explosion, but she will sustain the most damage, done willingly, with reckless welcome, to herself.

Each conversation I enter with her, I find myself suiting up. Helmet, gloves, chest pads to protect my heart. It's not much protection, thin as it is, but it's something. It's my job to disarm her, to decide which wire to cut. 

Red or black? Yellow or blue? Each is wired differently; no bomb seems built the same way. Red or black? Yellow or blue? Why is this wire green? When did we start using green wires? It seems there should be some sort of manual to follow, but with each attempt to simplify the disarmament, it seems a new trigger is introduced. 

The countdown clock does not stop flashing. I can envision the blast, feel its ghost heat upon my face. I shake with its strained energy. 

For a moment, I consider throwing myself upon the blast, absorbing the shock, saving everyone else. But that won't stop anything. There will always be more bombs along the road. And with one less person to defuse them. I lean, with my back against the wall, bracing myself. "I can do this," I reason.

Instead, I hold my breath, steady my hands, and speak a prayer for the color green.

With a snip, I look to my left and see us both still standing, still breathing, still clean.

In her place is a crystal vase, fragile and clear. 

And I wonder, stunned, who in the world leaves something so delicate in a place such as this?

Kindness Matters

One of my students asked me last week what I wanted for my birthday this Thursday. I told him that I honestly didn't know. He suggested a Duke trip to the Final Four, but even I knew that was a pretty desperate wish. I'm sad at just how right I was.

But I did think about it all weekend. It's so great to be a kid with a birthday coming up. The world is your oyster, and it's just about the only time that you get a pass for being selfish with your wishes. No sharing. No watching your back for that creepy elf. No costumes. Just you, a big sugar rush, and a pile of presents.

As an adult, though, it's lost a little bit of its magic, and I find myself needing fewer and fewer things in my life. So I've been thinking instead about all of the richness I already have.

I have been blessed with a meaningful career that challenges me every day.

I am honored to work alongside some of the most dedicated teachers I've ever known, and I have been for 14 years now.

I have money in my bank account. I cannot always say this, but I can right now. So there, I said it.

I have a home with cuddly kitties who snuggle and comfort me no matter how awful or great my day has been.

I have a home.

I watch, each day, my former students and campers grow up to change the world. And I get to say I had a tiny part in it.

I am relatively healthy, even if there's more of me than I'd like there to be.

I have a family who has always wanted me to be more than I ever dreamed I could become, even if it meant letting me go in order to have it.

I am surrounded by friends who loved me when I had nothing to give them but my friendship. And they haven't stopped yet.

And, this year especially, I've found myself surrounded by kindness. From the smallest moments to the biggest struggles, I've been met with nothing but encouragement and support and kindness. In a world that often feels so negative, I constantly am astounded by how much light there truly is.

I have always believed that kindness matters. I even keep a small sign in my classroom to remind both myself and my students of this. I believe it's circular; what you give, you will one day receive. I believe that it's contagious. And I believe that it is intentional. 

Certainly, I think there are some people in this world who are just more naturally inclined to being kind, but I don't think it happens accidentally. All of us, at some point or another (perhaps today even) has been faced with the choice -- to be or not to be kind. The chances and opportunities may be random, but the choice is not. I wish I could say that I always make the right choice, but I don't. The very best thing I can hope for is a chance to make the choice again, and I can.

Kindness is one of our last renewable resources. Yet it's only renewed by each of us.

This year, I don't want a sugar rush. I don't need a pile of presents. And I've already had the very best birthday party I could ask for, out in the wild West Texas wind with my most beautiful, wonderful friends.

All I want is for you to put a little more kindness out into the well. You don't have to tell me, or anyone else for that matter, but do it. Think about the nicest someone ever made you feel and, over the next few days, try to give that to someone else. 

Here are some of my favorites:

• Let someone cut in front of you at the grocery store.
• Go over to a new mom's house and hold that baby while she sleeps or showers or folds clothes.
• Sneak attack hugs (or high fives)
• Donate to a local shelter. Call them first. Ask what they need. Hit the Dollar Store.
• Allow your significant other to sleep in. Especially if you have kids or animals.
• Pick up the tab for the person at the next table (or behind you in the drive-thru)
• Spend an hour at a nursing home.
• Take a bouquet of flowers to the hospital and tell the nurse to give it to their most in-need patient.
• Clean out your bookshelves. Donate your favorites. Old books need new lives.
• Bake some cookies for your secretary or custodian or local service people.
• Leave a nice note for your waiter or waitress (along with a generous tip).
• Leave a nice handwritten note for ANYONE (words matter too!)
• Drop off a bag of food or litter to an animal shelter.
• Make copies or run an errand for a coworker when they least expect it (thanks again, Mandy, for the copies last week -- one of the best gifts you could give me: time!)
• Smile or tell a joke. Tell your dumbest one. Even if people say they don't like it, they probably do.
• Call someone who made you angry and forgive them. This is a tough one. Or forgive yourself.
• Send an email to your boss and brag on someone they may have overlooked. Teachers, pick a kid to brag on. Send 'em to the office on a POSITIVE referral.
• Pray. Pray for someone who doesn't ask. Pray for someone who may not know how.
• Notice the strengths of others. Thank them for it. Let them know how their gifts matter to you.

It doesn't have to be big or expensive or even well-planned. But when the opportunity presents itself, grab it and fill the well. You might just find yourself a little renewed, too.

Thank you, yet again, for visiting this space this past year. Whether you left a comment or whispered a prayer or just had a little chuckle, somehow I felt it. And it's lifted me up.

That's more than I ever could have wished for, friends.

On Procrastination...

I have a problem. And its name is Procrastination.

Seriously, I have a black belt in Time Wasting.

It's a problem I've had all my life, and I fight it all the time... getting packed for a trip, I'm still stuffing underwear into the suitcase as the car pulls up to the curb. Putting away laundry only happens when the mountain of clean clothes fully overtakes the kitchen table and threatens to erupt onto the floor. Grocery shopping? Forget about it. I'm the Queen of I'll-Stop-And-Just-Get-One-Thing. I run my car until it's empty because I hate stopping for gas. I dodge every deadline until the very last moment. And I hit the snooze button about 20 times in the morning, up until the exact second before it becomes too late.

And, frankly, sometimes I'm too late. It's genetic. I promise.

Well, this Spring Break turned into the Week of Postponed trips (and all for very good reasons), so last Saturday, I promised myself, "one day of time suck, and then -- PROJECTS".  Let me tell you how that went:

I finished watching "Breaking Bad". I caught up on all of the movies I had been missing. I watched the True Detective finale 3 times. I spent Sunday with a friend in Dallas. I spent a couple of afternoons at a nearby patio, checking their margarita supply. I wrote. I read. I saw every game of the ACC basketball tournament -- and it's a 15-team league. I got a manicure and pedicure and then proceeded to wander around Target for an afternoon and wound up buying oranges and Diet Coke. So... yeah.

I did not clean out closets.

I did not schedule doctors' appointments.

I did not renew my driver's license (although, for real, someone make me do this tomorrow).

I did not take the 4 (FOUR, y'all) boxes of things I cleaned out of closets (at Christmastime) to Salvation Army.

And, I most certainly did not clean out the other closet, the junk drawers in the kitchen, or my bookshelves.

That is until last night when I started cleaning out cabinets and the refrigerator (expiration date check) and the medicine cabinet (more expiration date checks -- I found Pepto Bismol tablets from college, y'all) and on and on and on.

Just since 5:00 tonight, I've done the dishes, 5 loads of laundry, re-organized the linen closet, the bathroom, the kitchen, and sorted out my entire sock drawer. I've developed a bit of a sock problem. I've also decided that if you are a man who can fold a fitted sheet, I will marry you. Truly. You don't even have to buy a ring.

You know how they talk about how runners hit a "runner's high"? I think I've hit the "cleaner's high". It's pretty elusive (although not as much as that stupid runner's high myth), but I think I'm there. (Or maybe that's just the Clorox fumes.) The only problem is that it's 11:32 PM on the last night of Project Spring Break, and I've got to be at work in only about 7 more hours.

See? A black belt. I think it's in the dryer, or I swear I'd show you.

300

Sometimes writing is a celebration. The writer chooses a subject and holds it up to the light to inspect its beauty and paint it so with his words.

Sometimes writing is a mutilation. The writer chooses a subject and rips it apart to investigate its innards, its weak spots. He cracks its bones and shreds its skin.

Sometimes writing is a salve. It soothes troubled spirits and minds. It may not heal, but it provides relief and respite.

Sometimes writing is a blood-letting. It trickles, and it gushes. It provides a relief and respite that is totally different -- painful and unnerving but weirdly soothing.

Writing is different things for different people at different times. Sometimes it's all four. Sometimes it's none.

But it's never easy. Not if it's meaningful. Not if it's true. At least not for me. Words may fill the page or the screen, and they may flow quickly, but they hardly ever flow easily.

This is my 300th post. I started writing here in May of 2010. Looking back on those first couple of posts, I don't recognize myself. They feel fake and peppy. They feel like something I thought someone would want to hear, not something I would want to say. Only 4 people read that first post, and I'm glad. I can most likely guess who those four people were, and they knew that wasn't really me either. 

It was a starting point, though, and I don't think it took too long to find myself.

I value privacy. I am, by my very nature, a secret-keeper, and I am good -- with my own and with others'. I worship, shy and squirming, at the temple of modesty, and my nose tends to stay in my own business. So to put mine out there, in a public forum no less, has been a constant battle. To reveal my shortcomings, my embarrassments, my failings has been painful albeit helpful. 

There have been times that I stood naked in my weakness, and there have been times I have tempered my words because it felt too much, too raw. I don't reread those posts often; some wounds just shouldn't be picked at.

But there have been times that someone found comfort in my discomfort, and that's not a bad thing. It's a human thing. None of us wants to be alone, and, as cliche as it sounds, if even one word made someone else feel less lousy, then it was the right word.

And there have been times when I was able to tell someone all the things I never had the chance to tell them, all the things I never took the time to tell them, all the things they should be celebrated for, all the beauty they held within the light. I revisit those posts often. 

In those 299 posts, I've ranted and raged, cried and crumbled, sulked and snarked. I have also smiled and laughed and triumphed. I've uncovered the awkward and revealed the absurd. I've said hello to a few, and I've said goodbye to too many. I've written about my students and about my co-workers. I've written about the meaningless and the meaningful.  I've written for my family. I've written for my friends. 

More than anything, though, I've written for myself.

I've gone to the well 108 times in the last 4 months. A third of my posts in such a short time, and I wonder when it will be that I run out of words. I worry about that often, but I only know that it will not be today. My original goal was to write more, and in the past three and a half years, I've written more than I could have ever imagined, even with long stretches of silence where I could not bear to open my heart. 

A few of you have been there since the beginning, when I was too scared to do more than just let my writing sit, waiting in the corner at the school dance.

A few more of you have joined along the way. Some I know well; some I barely know at all.  In the time I've written, my site has had 27, 894 page views. Some blogs do that count in a month or a week or even sometimes a day. But I am not them, and they are not me. 

It seems, to me, like a whole heck of a lot of love and attention for my little wallflower blog. 

Thanks for asking me to dance every once in a while.

Big Dreams and Drive-Through Lines

For the entirety of my childhood, all I ever wanted was a normal name.  I would go into stores and browse racks of personalized clutter, always hoping that someone, somewhere, would realize the loneliness my 8 year old self was enduring.

As you might expect, disappointment was plentiful.  

My mother intended for my name to be Deanna (dee-anna), but whomever filled in my birth certificate only put one N in the name.  My mother liked it even better, and because she understands how language works, my name became Deana (pronounced Dee-nuh).  It was also a nod to my dad (whose name is Dean) and my older brother (who is James Dean) as well as a nod to what might be perceived as my family's utter lack of originality (my nephew is Hunter Dean).

For a kid though, there's almost nothing worse than being different because:  DIFFERENT = WEIRD.

Having a different name was a daily reminder of my own weirdness.  I wanted to be a Carrie or an Ashley or a Lisa, like the other girls.  I wanted to have personalized pencils and license plates and lunchboxes.  And I didn't want some sympathy embroider job that my mom paid someone to do.  I wanted the real, live, pre-printed crap because:  PRE-PRINTED = NORMAL.

You can see here that I was a joy to be around as a kid.

Youngsters these days have it so easy, what with the internet printing whatever you please and making it look all NORMAL to have your name spelled any kind of jacked up way (looking at you people adding unnecessary z's and y's to your kids' names as if you're not going to cause them enough therapy-needing pain some other way).

I was 24 years old before I ever even met another Deana.  But she spelled her name "Deanna".  Her mother did not understand how language works apparently.  You'll notice that I'm a bit of a snob, now, when it comes to my name.  I spent most of my life answering to DeAnna, Dana, Diana, Dinah, or anything beginning with a D.  I've spent all of my life spelling and re-spelling slowly both my first and last name.

I've grown accustomed to my name, even growing enough backbone to correct its spelling or pronunciation with telemarketers or hostesses or new acquaintances.  I lost the people-pleasing need to overlook their mistakes or inattention to detail because I finally began to see my name as a gift from my language-loving mother and my very original dad.  And no matter how far apart my family drifts, I have at least 4 little letters that keep us connected.  I like that small comfort.

I've met a few more Deana's over the years, and it's been nice to know that I really wasn't alone in all those struggle moments.  I'd like to say that I've lost the need to see my PRE-PRINTED (read: NORMAL) name on a junky little gift, but I catch myself, eyes scanning the D-names at the booths in the mall.  There's still a little sigh of exasperation when I don't see myself there.

But sometimes when you least expect it -- say, you're just sitting in line for a Diet Coke and a biscuit -- the world opens up with the tiniest little shout-out, with a *dragon named "Deana".  A dragon, apparently, with big dreams.  And maybe you hold up the entire line to search for your camera in order to digitally capture a moment that's been 37 years in waiting.

On the cover of a children's book, no less.  I'd trade a million stupid pre-printed pencils for that.

*side note -- When I was 9, my brother, JD, won a giant pink and purple dragon for me at Six Flags.  He spent probably $30, trying to win it.  It was, and still is, my favorite gift he ever gave me.  Thanks for the reminder, Universe.

I See You, Barry Bonds

I got a steroid shot on Thursday.  Usually, that makes me instantly feel better (and a little jittery) and gives me a jolt of energy that leaves me unblinking and moving non-stop for about 4 hours.

It did nothing.  Until yesterday.

I went to school for a training and came home ready to work.  I did 6 loads of laundry, washed the dishes, cleaned out a closet, and boxed up 3 bags of donation clothes and items.  I was a whirlwind.

This morning, I woke up again, ready to continue the clean-out.  I resumed my adventure, cleaning out a desk and a box that has moved with me 3 times (and never been sorted).  Here's what I turned up:

This was all in one desk drawer.
A desk drawer that I obviously haven't opened in over a decade.

Yep. 4 old phones, including chargers.
What do you even do with this stuff?

Fancy.

I used this one forever.

5 rolls of undeveloped film.
Dropping it off tomorrow.  We shall see.  

When was the last time stamps were 37 cents?
2002.  That's when.

I can't even...

That's a gift check for $25.  Just in a drawer.
Wondering when it would be noticed.

I come from a long line of hoarders, and I'm afraid that both my nature and nurture have defeated me.

I found 9 purses.  Nine.  In those 9 purses, I found $8.35 in spare change, 6 pots of lip balm, and a Barnes and Noble gift card that still has $14.57 on it.  In two days, I've filled both the trash and recycling bins.  And I've still got 5 junk drawers, 1 closet, and 2 more rooms to go.

I'm starting to rethink my stance on performance-enhancing drugs.  I see your 73 homeruns, Barry Bonds.  And I'll raise you $47.92.

Boom.

No Middle Ground

I've been at home, sick, for 2 days.  Of that time, I was only awake in 20-30 minute stretches at a time.  I even managed to doze off in the waiting room of emergency care yesterday.  So, needless to say, updating the blog was not top priority.  It also wouldn't have been very interesting.

It's my self-imposed policy to stay away from texting, tweeting, Facebooking, etc. while I'm sick.  It's just not pretty, and I even tend to annoy myself after a while.

At school today, from my students, there were two distinct responses to my return to work:

A) "YOU'RE BACK!  I MISSED YOU!" (followed by a hug)

or

2) "Where you been?  You ain't lookin' so good!"  (followed by a side eye)

There is absolutely no middle ground with 7th graders.

I was also greeted with a few children who decided to test my patience... see if a couple days of fever sweats made me forget my own expectations.  They didn't.  I made 4 phone calls home and had 3 separate hallway conferences.

There is absolutely no middle ground with this 7th grade teacher either.

The Root

Today is World Teachers' Day.  The fact that A) I didn't know this, and I'm a teacher and 2) it's on a Saturday is so frustratingly appropriate that I can only shrug and laugh.  I only found out because one of my other favorite writers/teachers wrote a great piece about his 3rd grade teacher.  It's great, and you should go read it here.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with one of my fellow teachers not too long ago.  We'd been discussing her son's 4th grade teacher, and I couldn't help but remember my own.  Most of my elementary school career, I'd managed to fly under the radar.  I suspect that teachers knew I was smart and they liked me because I followed rules and kept quiet, but I don't have much of a sense of who I was as a child then.  Those memories are lost on me.

And then I landed in Bonnie Gooch's class.

I can remember so much about Mrs. Gooch's class.  I could probably even draw it out on paper if I had too.  She had the warmest smile, softest hands, and kindest voice I'd ever known.  She was also the tallest woman I think I had ever met, and I found it abnormally fascinating that someone so physically imposing could be so gentle.  Mrs. Gooch always read aloud to us in the afternoons, and there are certain books that when I hear them, I am transported back, head on my desk, warmed by the afternoon sun, soothed by her voice.  Mrs. Gooch taught me about dividing fractions, basketball rebounds, and compound sentences.  I think of her every time I teach my students about comma placement.

I think this was also the year we studied the plant cycle, growing beans in a cup.  I can remember my excitement at the green shoot, sprouting, spreading its roots throughout the soil I'd transplanted it to.  It was the first (and one of the only) things I've ever managed to grow.  It didn't last long as I hadn't realized that it would need room to grow and spread, that its roots needed more to anchor in and feed from.

More than just what she taught me, however, was the way she taught me to carry myself.  I was painfully shy and unconfident as a child, always struggling to please those around me.  I happened to be in a grade full of remarkably athletic boys and beautiful girls, and I struggled even just to stay near the middle.  When there are only 33 people in your grade, believe me, the middle does not contain a very wide margin for error.

If my earlier teachers had noticed any talent of mine, they never told me, and I had spent 4 years in school believing I had none.  Mrs. Gooch not only noticed, she made sure I knew.  She was a passionate competitor, and she encouraged this spirit in me as well.  She recruited me for her UIL Picture Memory team, an event which required the study of 40 paintings, their artists, countries of origin, and some critique.  I had never been exposed to such beautiful artwork (even in just print), and I marveled at how Mrs. Gooch could pronounce such difficult names and know so many things about places outside our small town city limits.  I was 21 when I visited the Kimbell Museum here in Fort Worth for the Renoir exhibit.  It was hot and crowded, but when I found myself nose to nose with a real-life Renoir, it was worth it.  I got yelled at by a security guard for being too close, but I didn't care.  When in my life would I be able to be so close to such history -- both that of the artist and my own?

Mrs. Gooch was also the first person to notice my love of writing.  She challenged me to be on her Ready Writing team.  It was difficult because I had grown up feeling like a child with no voice, with nothing of particular interest to say.  I couldn't imagine why she would tell me that she needed me, but she did.  We worked both in school and after, this little team of writers, racing the clock with only a pencil and our brains to arm us.  I do not remember even one word that I put to paper that year, but the feel of it was exhilarating.  I was only the alternate in that event, but it began my obsession with words.  It began my journey as both a writer and writing teacher.  It began my path to finding my own voice and then having the courage to use it.  For that alone, I'll be forever grateful.  It is a gift she had no idea she was giving.

I have been blessed by a lifetime of incredible educators, from elementary school all the way through college, and I continue to surround myself with some of the best in our field.  From each of them, I have taken nourishment and knowledge; each of them has a special place within my soul.  Other teachers along the way have nurtured what she planted, but Mrs. Gooch was the root.

Thank you for giving me room to grow.

Essential Knowledge

Here's what they don't teach you in education certification programs:

Tequila.

They don't teach you about tequila, and they should.  It's essential knowledge.

In fact, they should staple a margarita recipe to your teaching certificate because there will be days/weeks where you use both for equal amounts of time.

Because Baseball Y'all...

It was an absolute train wreck of a day.

The only thing saving it was a trip to the Ballpark for some bonus baseball and game #163.

You'd think that a 5-2 loss would add to the train wreck.

You'd think that waiting 45 minutes on a shuttle would add to the train wreck.

You'd think that arriving back at the parking lot to find my car covered in bird feces would add to the train wreck.

You'd think not making it home until midnight with a racing brain and a serious case of insomnia would add to the train wreck.

You'd think that losing my Twitter bet and having to change my avi to this would add to the train wreck.

Scene from Bull Durham.
Since most of the Rays come from that system, Krest thought this was apropos.
I sort of don't see the embarrassment I'm supposed to feel.

But you'd be wrong.

Because baseball, y'all. 

What Are You So Afraid Of?

Yesterday was the end of Banned Books Week.

I feel pretty sad because, as busy as I've been, I neglected the big display for my room I had planned this summer.

Books have always held a sacred and special place in my heart.  I am genuinely saddened by people who don't like to read, and I often wonder where all of their thoughts and ideas come from.  I've said before that my parents were never especially political or religious, and I really can't remember even one time where they told me what I should or should not believe.  From early on, I knew that some of the things I felt and believed to be right were not the same views shared by my family or their friends, but I cannot for the life of me remember a time that I was faulted for it.

Books and reading were never denied in my house or in my school, and I grew up surrounded by pages and words and thoughts.  I read everything I could get my greedy little hands on.  Even now, my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book open in my hands.

I have never understood the banning of books because I do not understand the denial of ideas and education.  For parents who challenge books or authors, I ask, "What are you so afraid of?"

Are you afraid of opposing views?

Are you afraid of defending your own views?

Are you afraid that your child will no longer share your views?

Are you afraid that -- maybe, just maybe -- you'll have to reconsider your own beliefs?

If what you believe, or what you've taught your children, is so worthwhile -- so steadfast -- don't you want them to explore other viewpoints?  How do you defend and build your truth if you never investigate what actually makes it true?  An argument that cannot withstand question was never a very valid argument at all.

Are you afraid your child will learn something you don't want him to know?

Are you afraid your child will pick up some bad habit, some swear word, some foul desire?

Are you afraid your child's interest in something will cause you more work?

Unless you're raising your child in a bubble, he probably already does.  The world is a dangerous and dirty place at times, but keeping a book out of his hand won't necessarily keep him clean.  Most of the terrible and dangerous things I learned about in life were certainly not found in a book.

Hypocrisy, adultery, lying, cheating, swearing, racism, bigotry... I saw them everywhere, from the bottom all the way to the top, from the lowly to the holy, from the common to the famous.  I still do.  But it's in books and speeches and interviews and newspapers (paired with open and honest discussion with the adults in my life) that I learned how I felt about those things.  Through those discussions and opportunities, I developed a sharp wit, a moral compass, a strong opinion, and a keen eye.

I said earlier that my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book in my hand, but I think I'd have to amend that.  It has nothing on the moment when a book closes, and I cannot stop thinking about what it said to me.

Books speak, or at least the best ones do, and their voices never go away.  All I ask is that before you silence one, ask yourself, honestly... what am I so afraid of?