The Panic of Perfection

As the first day of school draws near, I am sensing a definite theme with my teacher friends as I scroll through social media: Panic.

Not about curriculum. Not about students. Not about school policies. Full-blown Panic about the state of not-nearly-readiness of our classrooms. I sense their panic because I know this Panic. We are, in fact, old, old friends, he and I. Today was our 17th anniversary.

Hello, lover.

At my school, almost everyone is in a new place, and all week, I've seen people walking in and out of each others' rooms, calculating time lost in meetings, eyeing decor, silently taking measurements, calling dibs on unwanted furniture. Today was NJH Craigslist day: if you want something post about it or if you're looking, post about it. Teachers cruise hallways like seasoned garage-salers. Word about hard-to-find objects like bookshelves or free Expo markers spreads like we're Bodie and the Corner Boys.

Teacher 1: "Yo. You didn't hear this from me, but I saw a sweet, sweet rolling chair just sittin' outside room 208. You want me to go pick it up for you?"

Teacher 2: (twitches and whispers) "I don't know, man. Doesn't that belong to Drury? Why's he puttin' it out there like that? You sure it's safe? I don't want any trouble."

Teacher 1: "Don't worry about Drury. If it's in the hallway, it's fair game. Thems the rules, you know? All I need is a 24 count box of mechanical pencils, and we're square."

And that's just the physical layout of the room. We haven't even started out-Pinteresting each other yet. Elementary school teachers start planning their class themes for the upcoming school year even before the previous year is done. I'm convinced they go on retreats to the desert, do a bunch of peyote, and then their spirit animal drops their bulletin board plan into the sand. It is absolutely the only explanation.

Junior high teachers don't usually dig quite as deep, but don't be fooled. We care. We worry about having the coolest decorations and the hottest memes to use as our classroom procedures. We're all about the best lighting and the comfiest chairs. We want to be seen but we don't want to seem too eager about it because we just want you to like us.

As I've said many times before: it takes junior high to teach junior high.

I've been especially stressed this year because in the grand game of musical classrooms, I've been lucky the past 3 years and avoided a move. But this year, I've taken the sidewalk less-traveled and moved to the portable buildings outside. And not just those outside but across the street. On the football field.

These buildings appeared through some form of wizardry one day last year, only two years after they were ordered. They sat empty until June when my PLC and I began shoving our hastily packed boxes into them.

"BLANK CANVASES!" the optimists shouted.

"NO HALLWAY DRAMA!" the hermits cheered.

"YOUR OWN THERMOSTAT!" everyone exclaimed.

"ONLY 527 STEPS TO THE RESTROOM!" I cried.

Me, today, after 3 Diet Cokes and forgetting my key card into the building.

It has not been a pretty move. Not only did my lovely students schlep all of my 17 years worth of teaching materials, boxes of mementos, and 743 novels, but they did so in the rain. For the cost of Chik Fil-A. And it all sat, unopened and unthought of until last Friday when I could no longer ignore my ever-growing anxiety. That's when I walked into my BLANK CANVAS that was AWAY FROM HALLWAY DRAMA with my very OWN (unreliable) THERMOSTAT. And I saw that absolutely nothing had changed in two months. My own ragged boxes still there, taunting me but there was nothing else. No teacher desk, no furniture, no technology, no internet -- in any of my PLC's rooms. And all my worst trust issues burst out of me in such a way that I may never make it into Heaven.

I will admit it. S**t got real, and it got real fast. I fumed. I cried. I cussed. I guilted. I played every last card I knew how to play. I had gotten my feelings hurt, and then I got mad. I ranted and raved and reminded until, little by little, things began to appear. I was actually kind of proud of myself for fighting the fight and fighting it so well.

Then last night, at our Preseason Picnic, 40 students and their parents and siblings walked those 527 steps to my unkempt, uncovered, shameful door. Not a single one asked why my bulletin boards were unfinished. Not a single one noticed I had no computer on my desk. Not a single one cast the side eye at my tables covered by piles of construction paper and Jenga towers of novels. Or the missing ceiling tile that I predict will be the gateway to a raccoon home invasion someday soon.

For teachers, their classroom is a second home. We spend 50+ hours per week there. We sometimes eat breakfast, lunch, AND dinner there. I had a friend once who took longer to pick out her office chair than I took to pick out my last mattress. It is the place we learn and cry and celebrate and, sometimes, nap. So when we open them up to others -- especially to those first time guests -- we want them to be clean and comfortable and inviting.

So how did no one mention what they saw? Did they politely ignore? Did they silently judge and then talk about me on some "disappointing classrooms of 2016" message board? Or did it really not matter? These are the questions I thought about and woke myself up with at 4:00 AM when I finally realized something and made some peace within my mind. Peace that I knew in my heart but I could not quite hammer into my head.

1. There are entire school buildings in my district that remain in process of construction/renovation. Those teachers have not even been allowed in their own homes yet.

2. There are entire communities underwater in my neighboring state where children dream about going back to school as they sleep curled up on the roofs of their actual, submerged homes.

3. There are teachers in my district (but finally, FINALLY not in my school) who do not have their own rooms, and they must depend on the kindness and care of fellow teachers to let them in.

4. When I started at my school 17 years ago, we didn't have our own computers or telephones or wifi signals. We calculated grades on calculators and hand-wrote our grade sheets on triplicate forms and actually walked to someone else's classroom to ask a question. And I survived! And I was loved! And my children learned!

5. There are still schools in our very own God-Bless-the-USA nation that cannot afford copy paper of textbooks or faculty pay checks. Schools with mold and broken windows and fear, and yet children learn.

6. And that there are people in this world willing to sit under a bridge, in the dirt, to learn from a man with only a battered chalkboard and the desire to teach.

7. That never -- not once -- have I ever been denied what I need at my school. Things have arrived late. They may have arrived inconveniently. But they arrived, and I am blessed by their arrival. Even the NJH Craigslist furniture ads typically get fulfilled within 24 hours by someone.

So, I know I'm preaching what I must practice myself these next 3 days, but this is what finally gave me peace this morning, and in moments of panic, I want you to say it with me:

It doesn't matter.

It will all be okay.

My home doesn't have to be Pinterest perfect to be clean, welcoming, and inviting. It just needs me.

I am enough.

My students don't need things; they need me.

All a classroom needs is students, chairs, and someone who cares.

And to be honest, when necessary, even the chairs are negotiable.

Who's Afraid of a Little Rabid Raccoon? It's Me. Pick Me.

We live in a big ol' world full of big ol' scary things. As an anxious child, I naturally developed many deep fears, some normal while others are, well, not as normal.

The topic tonight asked for 5 of my biggest fears. My response was "Only five?" But as one of my fears is disappointing others, I'll separate my fear list into two categories: "deep-seated fears" and "where the eff did that come from?"

Deep-Seated Fears

1. Being wrong in front of LOTS of people. I was the kid who was paralyzed by the thought of going to the chalkboard to solve a math problem. I still am. Even now, when I stop by a math teacher's tutorial session to help crowd-manage, I get the sweaty palms. I know, in my heart, that I understand 7th grade math. I passed it. I have a college degree. But there's still a moment of dread that I'll mess up and everyone will think I'm dumb. That teacher thinks I'm trying to be helpful; truly it's just fear therapy. I still feel my face flame up in embarrassment when my friends bring up a mistake I made once, 10 years ago. My fear is so palpable that I just googled three different sites to determine if it's "deep-seated" or "deep-seeded".

Excuse me while I go reapply my deodorant.

2. Disappointing others. I have an addiction to helping others. Being needed is my drug of choice. So the thought of letting someone else down, of not being enough, is a fear I fight daily. Maybe hourly. I am constantly on the look-out for someone's disappointed look. But, inevitably, I can't be everything for everyone, so I have to talk myself off that ledge quite often.

3. Drowning. My mother has this fear too, and I think it was passed down via the umbilical cord. When I was a kid, we lived on a lake. Never, ever was a life preserver a choice. But that didn't extend to just the lake. I was the kid in the big orange life jacket at the city pool. I learned to swim, truly, at summer camp, and I am thankful for that. I still love the water, absolutely and completely. Yet there's still a part of me that gets nervous each time I jump in. Like I'm going to suddenly forget 3 decades worth of swimming ability.

4. Natural disasters. Another of my mother's fears were storms -- tornados, in particular. And because I grew up in the Texas panhandle, every spring and summer were spent readying ourselves for the next big storm. To make things worse, we lived in a mobile home for most of my life with the city storm shelter at least 2-3 minutes drive away. When those are your realities, you find ways to cope. So for the first 12-14 years of my life, I went to bed most spring and summer nights in my nightgown with my shoes on, and a flashlight in hand. Whether those were her instructions or a creation of my own, I couldn't tell you. Yet even now, as soon as clouds roll up, the first thing I put on are my running shoes. I'm much more confident now though because as a West Texas kid, I often have to be the weather girl in many situations and maintain calm. But hurricanes or earthquakes or volcanic explosions? Get all the hell the way outta here with that. Natural disasters can't be predicted or controlled, and that freaks me outtttt.

5. Fear. Yes, I have a fear of being afraid. As crazy as that sounds, it's true. I worry often that I'm not living my life to its fullest. That I'm missing out on opportunities because I'm harnessed by fear. Fear of change. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. But what I've narrowed it down to, basically, is fear. I spent a LOT of time and money figuring that one out. Who would've guessed?

Where-the-Eff-Did-That-Come-From? 

1. Clowns. They're all psychopaths looking to peel my face off and use my pancreas as a hat. Of this, I am convinced, and I'll never believe otherwise.

2. Marionettes. Their movements are so creepy. And their strings are perfect for strangling an unsuspecting person when they come to life. Truth be known, I have a highly illogical fear of all dolls for much the same reason.

3. Dumpsters. I have a long-held fear that I'll discover a dead body in one. But dumpsters also attract all kinds of creatures. At worst, you could get a rabid raccoon bite to the face and at the very least, that little furry bastard will scurry out from his hiding place and literally scare the pee out of me. I don't like anything that scurries. Or scuttles.

4. Technology will take over the world. I suspect this stems from one too many sci-fi stories gone wrong, but I can't prove it. All I know is that when the robots come for us, don't say I didn't warn you.

5. Unnaturally smart small children. You see all these videos of toddlers doing algebra and listing all the world capitals and such. Everyone thinks it's SO cute. Nope. Not me. Not cute at all. It's unnerving. I mean, I'm all for kids being smart, but there's a fine line between having a well-built vocabulary and leading the robot revolution. Know what I'm sayin'?

6. Vomiting. Oh God. I can't even...

Logic vs. Not Logic

I scared the ever-loving hell out of a poor AT&T guy today. He was only about 20 or so, and I'm sure he's had no training for the likes of me.

I went in today to talk about rearranging my plan. I've had both of my parents on my cell phone plan for the last 4 years, and I know there has to be a better, more cost-efficient way to handle our needs. I've known that the quickest way to chop about 30 bucks is to cancel my dad's phone, and I've known it for a long time. I just haven't been able to do it. Every month, I pay the bill, and I promise that I'll make that change. Yet I don't. It's a promise I never keep. Sure, it's only $30, a drop in the great Cosmic hat, but it could definitely go to use elsewhere. This is logic.

My dad has been in a nursing home for the past two years. We haven't given him a phone for lots of reasons, most of which I'm sure seem heartless to anyone who isn't in our situation but hopefully save everyone the smallest of heartaches and heart attacks. I lied and told him it had been stolen after a hospitalization. It was hard because I'm not one to lie to my dad very often. It was terrible because he's always been able to see through them when I do.

I confessed to a friend last weekend that I'd been paying the bill even after he went into the nursing home. This is not logic. She wasn't shocked, but it's been in my mind since then, wriggling worm-like, begging the question of why.

I don't know why. There is not a sane or logical or remotely understandable reason to keep it. If this were happening to anyone else, my dad would've already scolded me into cutting that cost months ago, telling me to "toughen up" and "let it go". But it is happening to my dad, and as I've learned, outlooks and opinions change drastically when he's at the center of them.

My dad has Parkinson's, and that will never change because there is no cure. And he is getting worse, causing me just this week to postpone a visit because he wasn't well enough. Even his medication treatments bring little relief to his continual muscle freezes and immobility, and when adjustments are made, we risk his mental stability and the emotional stability of my entire family. The last 5 years of his treatment, trading sanity for independent movement, have been a damn work of art in how to rob Peter to pay Paul. A mural, painted entirely with false hope, disregarded opinions, and monkey shit.

My dad has changed so much -- physically, mentally, emotionally -- that he feels less and less like the man I grew up with every day. He's still in there, so sly and sharp some moments that it's scary, but there are others that disconnect me in a way I once thought unimaginable. That's hard to say, especially to someone who doesn't have a parent at all. But my whole life, I thought the worst thing that could ever happen would be for him to die. It is only after years of watching him slowly disintegrate, of watching all of us fall apart, do I concede that perhaps there are far worse things than death. Maybe that's naive or selfish or cliche -- it certainly feels that way -- but I know that I wouldn't wish it on my very worst enemy. I don't hate anyone that much.

Keeping that phone line has been a habit, a secret that I've pushed down in order to make it feel as if he's not gone. Because he isn't gone. But it also doesn't bring him back. I talked my dad into a cell phone to make myself feel better when he was out working alone, when his moments of physical fallibility were frequent enough to give me worry but infrequent enough to make him stop. Now, he cannot dial the numbers himself or even often make his voice loud enough to be heard over it. I gave him that phone so that he would have a way to reach all of us, and now we are all so desperate to avoid a phone call because in my family no one ever calls with good news. Never before has $30 made such little sense to me. All my life, I have done what my dad advised, and here I was, yet again, needing my dad -- my not-sick dad -- to just tell me what to do.

Nothing in the world makes me feel less like a grown-up than to actually have to be THE grown-up. I feel like a 5 year-old, playing in my mother's make-up and jewelry.

And these are the thoughts that snaked around my brain while I waited at the AT&T store. While I waited on their psychotically bright orange couch, questioning why I couldn't do such a seemingly simple thing. And for me, waiting is the hardest part. Waiting gives me time to think and feel and fear and doubt. I'm not good at waiting. In fact, I'm almost as terrible at it as I am at lying.

So, when that poor, unsuspecting 20-something asked me how he could help, I didn't know how to explain that I was here to get rid of my dad's last tie to his own independence and dignity. I burst into tears and barely managed an apology, leaving him blank-faced and staring after me as I scuttled out the door, desperate to save my meltdown for the car, away from the orange couch and befuddled looks.

And to top it all off, they still got my 30 bucks this month. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, my old dad just shakes his head.

Poppin' Stitches

I feel like the seams came apart a little last night and today.

All my biggest and worst flaws didn't just peek through; they busted out like opening a can of biscuits.

I don't know why or what brought it on although it's most likely the anxiety I've been holding in about the new school year.  I'm always a little bit anxious about anything new and different, even if I've done it 13 times already.  And the not knowing where my room is or how I might have to move my 20 boxes of books and class supplies finally caught up with me.

Instead of coming up with a plan, or getting stuff done around my house, I shut down.  I woke up.  Thought about my to-do list.  Decided that it was all too much.  And promptly went back to sleep -- several times.  It's my go-to avoidance maneuver.  Luckily, whether I'm ready or not, a good helping of responsibility and accountability soon will make my go-to completely null and void.  But right now, my feet are draggin' hard.

Say a little prayer that I'm not on the moving list tomorrow morning when I show up in Arlington. It could be my own Trail of Tears.  Or at least cuss words.

**UPDATE:
Just as I was uploading my whiny (but honest) post about how much I am dreading the moving of my classroom tomorrow, a friend alerted me to the fact that an email had been recently sent, detailing my new classroom assignment and the fact that my boxes had been moved.

And now I feel like an ungrateful jerkface.  Thanks, God.

I'll probably still be cussing as I attempt to move furniture and re-hang my Chinese lanterns.  Because my gratitude only lasts so long.

See You Tomorrow...

It's been a pretty rough last few years.  And this past year, things have gotten a little tougher.  As a consequence, I've started to go to counseling.  I'd say I've "gone back to counseling", but in truth, seeing someone once, hating them, seeing someone else, hating them, and then giving up entirely is not really the same as "seeing a counselor".  I saw them.  I just didn't see them for long.

If you know me well, you know this post is difficult for me to write.  If you don't know me well, you should at least know what you're in for if you stick around.

1.  I'm a pretty private person.  I'm outgoing.  I have lots of friends.  I love to have a good time.  And I will talk to you at length about what's going on in your life.  Mostly so I don't have to share what's up with mine.  This comes from a long-standing "don't put your dirty panties out on the front porch" policy in my family.  I tend to swallow my feelings until they start seeping out in other ways (or just exploding all over an unsuspecting friend who just thought we were going out for drinks).  It's not healthy, and I've gotten better about sharing -- but, in truth, I'm way more comfortable with my head in the sand.

2.  I'm a people-pleaser to the nth degree.  (Is that how you say it? To the "nth"?  Feels weird.)  I'm the baby in the family.  I was painfully shy as a child.  I have an inordinate fear of making mistakes.  I detest confrontation.  So, my coping technique of choice, for most of my life, is to just agree.  Be polite.  Don't cause a ruckus.  Take what you're given and be grateful for it.  I didn't realize this was such an obvious thing until one day at Whataburger, about 5 years into our friendship, Courtney said, "You know... if you just ask for 'no pickles, no tomatoes', they'll most likely serve it to you that way."  It had never occurred to me; I just picked off what I didn't like.  No muss, no fuss.  I am in awe of people forthright enough to send their food back when it's prepared incorrectly.  I aspire to one day just send back the soup.

3.  I'm a good listener.  I'm not that great of a talker.  Talking = sharing, and that's uncomfortable sometimes.  Again, I'm so much better than I used to be, but when cornered, I go mute.  Most people don't mind.  Most people are content to talk away.  It pleases them to find a good listener.  (Are you sensing a pattern?)  It's not that I never talk or that I'm patronizing the speaker somehow and doing a half-ass job.... I REALLY am a great listener, and I am genuinely interested in everything you have to say.  It's just that when you go to a counselor, he doesn't really like to do a ton of talking.  There was lots of awkward silence on our first visit.

4.  I'm a caretaker by nature.  I like to fix things.  I'm easily frustrated by things I can't fix.  I've ruined a few relationships trying to "fix" the other person.  I've lovingly dubbed it the "Wounded Bird Syndrome".  I'm a sucker for strays, and I struggle with just throwing out broken stuff.  I realize now that it's just a way to avoid working on my own shit, but again, it truly does feel good to help someone else.  It's like a drug to me.  Being needed is my drug of choice.  Well, being needed and Diet Coke.

5.  I crack jokes when I'm nervous.  I'm nervous right now.  Hence the lame jokes and parenthetical asides.  

I shouldn't be nervous.  If you're my friend or if you care even an ounce about me, none of this matters.  If you're not, then get lost.  I didn't need you anyway.  Again, I'm kidding.  Please don't go.

6.  I don't feel like I NEED counseling.  I feel like I should be able to handle my own problems.  I'm a grown-up; I should be able to figure this out and just deal.  My brother says I'm full of crap for this.  So do my friends.  And, in fact, if any of them were struggling, I'd advise them to -- guess what -- go to therapy.  Talk it out.  It will feel better.  Maybe I am sort of full of crap.  I'll tell you what, there's nothing like being on the edge of out-of-control to really open your eyes to your own control issues.

So several things have led me to finally try making a change.  This past year at work was one of the most pressure-filled and emotionally intense times of my life.  And the upcoming school year will surely only bring more moments under the microscope.  I have had to take a much bigger role in my family.  I don't get to be the baby anymore, letting my parents just make decisions and worry about themselves.  I am still learning to deal with the physical and emotional changes that my father's illness has brought about not only within himself but within all of us.  I am living the first July in 18 years with nothing to keep my attention.  Every other year, I ended school and within 24 hours I was working at camp.  I would end camp, and within 48 more hours, I was back at school.  Not only was camp my home, but it kept my focus 24 hours a day, 6 days a week -- especially the last 5 years.  I managed June with summer school, but once July hit, I really started to notice some traits I didn't care for.  I noticed that the one glass of wine I wanted at the end of a long day was turning into several that I felt like I needed.  I stopped wanting to go spend time with people that I really, really love because their joy was just too overwhelming for me.  How effed up is that?  I love these people; their joy should reflect within me.  I found myself smiling less, talking less, celebrating less, and I hated it.  I was becoming like so many people I didn't want to be -- that I swore I'd never be.

When I finally started talking on that first visit, and I expressed some of this, it wasn't a surprise -- not to me or to the counselor (duh).  We talked about several things that I do that make me feel better (other than a box of wine).  I expressed that I love to write and that I had a blog.  The next question was how long it had been since I wrote anything on it.  I honestly couldn't remember (It had been almost 4 months).  And my only conclusion was that I didn't feel like I had anything good to say.  For me, I've tried to be one of two things a majority of the time on the blog -- funny or hopeful -- because that's what I wanted to hear.  It's what I was desperate to hear.  I didn't want to be controversial because I didn't want to fight.  I didn't want to be sad because I didn't want to bring others down and heap my problems onto everyone else.  I didn't want to put my panties on the porch because what if someone read what I had to say (i.e. my family) and it hurt them? And I was so emotionally exhausted that I didn't know how to be funny.  And everything else seemed so bleak that feeling hopeful just felt fraudulent.

And then he reminded me that people wouldn't come here to the blog if they didn't care.  Or if they weren't interested.  Or if they couldn't relate.  And if they didn't like what I had to say, they'd close the page.  Maybe they'd be back, maybe they wouldn't.  But if I'm writing to make myself feel better, why the Hell am I worried about anyone else?

Well.  Huh.  I hadn't thought of that.

Because I won't see him often (which is sort of okay to me -- that silence was painful), he asked me to choose one thing that made me feel better (writing, going for a walk, seeing friends, reading, etc) and then challenged me to do it every day for a month.  I might not make it (and that's okay which minimized my fear of messing up and missing a day), but I'm going to try.  I started a couple of days ago, intending to post at least once a day, but I realized that I'm the kind of person who needs accountability.  I'm famous for my procrastination and leaving unfinished projects, and I know this about myself all too well.  So that's why I'm writing today; to let you (whomever you may be) know that I plan to be here every day.  It might not be a long post; it might not even be a great post.  But by midnight every night, there will be a post here.  And it's okay for you to text me or message me or tweet me and goad me on if you see me slipping.  I do better with someone antagonizing me.  I'm competitive that way. 

I'll try not to make every post sad or angry.  I'd still much rather have a laugh or a smile any day.  But I need you (whomever you are) to know that it's a possibility that I might be frustrated, I may hurt your feelings, I may even make you angry or sad sometimes.  I'll try not to, but sometimes what needs to be purged isn't pretty once it comes out.  (That image wasn't pretty either -- sorry.)  And if I do any of those things, feel free to hit the big red "X".  I'll never know.

My next post will be about something really good -- the adoption of my two sweet nephews -- which was completed on Friday.  There will be many cute baby pictures, I promise.  It's important to celebrate a little, I think.  And just breathe.

Watch Pearl Jam "Just Breathe" on PBS. See more from Austin City Limits.

So, with that knowledge, I'll see you here tomorrow, friends.

How You Can Save a Life. And My Sanity.

Last night, on my way home from a super-long day at work, I saw a little kitty cat racing across a busy street.  I won't go into details, but to put it lightly, Little Kitty met a terrible fate, courtesy of two cars that didn't even tap the brakes.  Luckily for me, through the waterfall of tears pouring down my face, I saw a car pull over to scoop said kitty up.  Thank goodness there are still kind and non-hysterically crying people in the world.

In my heart, they went straight to the Animal Emergency Room.  There was some emergency life-saving surgery performed by a brilliant cat surgeon who happened to stop in to leave some fliers for his new pro-bono stray animal surgery foundation.  At worst, said kitty might have to use one of those carts that carry around their hind legs. 

In my head, I know that most of that is not true.  Okay.  Probably none of that is true.  *sigh*

And then I panicked and thought the worst.  I am a kitty owner.  What if that had been my cat?  What would I do?

Not that it was any of my kitties.  Nope.  My kitty cats are fat and lazy and would shit their pants if they were ever even on the front porch (or if cats wore pants).  They hiss a mean game at each other, but in truth, they simply are not cut out for the street life.

See what I'm sayin'?  There's no napping on the street, bitches!

No.  I was worried about my PK.  My Porch Kitty.  I call him Jake.  I don't know why.  It just fits.

"I'm Jake, and I'm not good at sitting still for pictures!"



Several months ago, I was adopted by this kitty and his brother.  Word from one neighbor was that they belonged to someone down the street who just never fed them or let them in the house.  Jackholes.  I took pity (I'm genetically pre-disposed to the need to take in all strays) and began feeding them.   Jake's little brother, Boo, was miraculously adopted (in my heart -- adopted) by a kind stranger who has a catnip farm.  Thus, Jake has become a bachelor... living it up in the shed or the back porch or even the lid of my recycling bin.  He even found a way to survive the long weeks this summer when I was at camp.

Each morning, when I open the screen door, he races around the corner to the front porch.  In the evenings, when my car pulls into the driveway, he is at the door to greet me.



"I love you.  And your Meow Mix."

It might have a little something to do with the Meow Mix I serve up each day, but I prefer to think our friendship runs much deeper. 

 

Food = easy to photograph



You'll also notice that Jake is super skinny.  Now, I don't have much knowledge of "normal-sized" cats, but he seems a bit on the supermodel-lean scale.  I also worry -- even more intensely after last night's episode -- that I'll come home one day to find a roadside tragedy.  

I cannot take another cat into my home.  A) My cats don't even like each other, let alone other animals and 2) I have FURniture.  Seriously.  I cannot wear black pants ever again.

I also cannot continue to just leave Jake on the front porch.  I mean, I already gave him a name.  I buy him his own food.  I'm attached, and I've been down this road before.  I once had a Porch Kitty named Buster.  He showed up one day, sweet as can be.  I fed him and watered him and even nursed him back from a snake bite on the foreleg with some old dog antibiotics.  Buster was a total badass.  And then, one day, he was gone.  I cried for weeks.  

I can't do that again.

So here's my offer, America.  If you are interested in a really sweet and loving kitty, I know one.  I cannot testify to whether he claws furniture or will live inside or gets along with other animals.  I don't know if he loves kids or will chase your robot vacuum.  But I can tell you, with all confidence, that he is loyal.  He is tough.  He doesn't bawl and squall.  He can make do with just a trash can lid for a bed, and he eats fast and cheap.  I will corral him in a carrier and bring him wherever you are, and I will even share in the cost of vetting and neutering him.  This is how much I like this crazy cat.  All you have to do is give the go-ahead.  I think that good ol' Jake would make a wonderful addition to any household, and I'll even let you change his name.

But might I suggest "Buster"?

Creeptastrophe

Lately, I've been obsessed with this song:



It's got such a catchy beat. Whenever it comes on the radio, I immediately have to open the sunroof, crank up the volume, and start car-dancing. Complete with hair tossing and a giant smile.

I'm sure other drivers think I'm having some sort of epileptic fit. That is until the catch the happy clap beats blaring by them.

So tonight I thought I'd share my new favorite song. And then I found out that it's like 3 years old.

And worse? This is a quote about the original music video:

Welch told the NME January 10, 2010 that the song's music video is her favorite one to date. She explained this was not only "because it was our first, but also because of the people involved. I just made it on a whim. We went down to the woods and we only had one camera. I got my dad to put a clown costume on and my friend's nephew to dress up as the baby clown while we decorated the woods. Dog walkers gave us the weirdest looks. It was really fun."

Oh, Florence. And I thought we were going to be friends. Creeptastrophe.

Here's the link to the old video. Click the link if you dare. I tried to embed it into this post but was denied. Gotta admit... kind of glad about that. (If the music doesn't play, change the setting from "360p" to "240p" at the bottom of the video screen.)

You'll need the music to distract you from your own terror.

Why Zombies Will Never Make Me a Millionaire.

Last night, I dreamed about zombies. It was especially vivid because zombies (and zombie movies) give me the heebs. I also fully dislike "apocalypse" movies -- mainly because they usually involve zombies -- or, at the very least, cannibalism. Blech. Yet, in the past week, I've watched all six episodes of "The Walking Dead" (which are actually very well-done) and yesterday, I watched "The Road" (which, of course, was a much better book so I'd avoided the movie for over a year). So, truthfully, it does not surprise me one bit that undead brain-chompers shuffled through my dreams.

It's been reported that Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, came up with her idea for the books after she awoke from a dream. She is a multi-millionaire because she. woke. up.

Needless to say, I've been keeping a notebook and pen next to the bed.

Think what you will about the actual writing in the books, but ol' Steph really cornered the market on the teenage mutant romance genre. The whole draw is that Little Miss Plain Jane becomes the number 1 desire of the dreamiest boy at school. Her very life force, her essence, is irresistible to him. Name one girl in the world who has not had this very same fantasy. Literally, I want to check out Stephanie Meyer's junior high yearbooks and find the basis for Edward because, let me tell you, homegirl had a thang for that character.

Of course, it just so happens that the dreamiest boy in school likes to drink blood. And this is the brilliance of Meyer's plan. Vampires are sexy. Always have been. They are mysterious and usually well-dressed. They are always quite wealthy and cultured. Their seductive nature lures you in and hypnotizes you into thinking, "Man, I bet I'm gonna wake up with one awesome hickey!" Although we all know what he's after. Not your jugs. Just your jugular.

No other monsters are ever as attractive as vampires. Meyer tried, with the inclusion of the wolfpack in her books. It was quite clever that, as a result of increased body temps and the need to "wolf out" at any given moment, they walk around practically naked the whole time. But no other werewolf movies have pulled off the heartthrobby wolfman. Mostly they just look in need of a flea-dip and a trip to the groomer.

Mummies are no good either. Sometimes the mummy-killer is smokin' hot, but mummies seem more like a minor role kind of friend. You know, like Ducky in "Pretty in Pink". Adorable in the "aw-shucks" kind of way, but pretty harmless. The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Godzilla, chupacabras... none of them are what I'd call "romantic lead material".

So, that leaves me a narrow window to my fame and fortune. No zombies, however, managed to fall in love in my dreams. Frankly, none of them were even attractive. Mouth-breathers with poor posture and a penchant for gnawing on your femur bone. I don't know how to work with that kind of material.

It looks as though I'll have to earn my millions the old fashioned way. Lottery tickets.

The Men in Orange

So yesterday... at approximately 12:30 PM, I did it.

I drank the kool-aid.

It was Apple flavored, and it. was. awesome.

I have avoided the iPhone craze for a while now. All around me, people moved seamlessly into the Dawn of New Technology, but I dug my heels in and flat-out refused.

What in the crack was I thinking?

Okay. Here's what I was thinking.

I am afraid of technology. Not in the "old lady in your technology class who's afraid of starting nuclear winter with one wrong button push on her PC" sense of the phrase, but rather in the "the machine in the palm of my hand is sci-fi smart and that freaks my shit out" kind of way. Seriously, I have the illogical fear of technology taking over the world and not in the good way. Probably, somewhere in my nerdy past, I read some book or watched some movie about robots or cyborgs or microchip implantation that warped my brain into its somewhat paranoid state, and logically, I am aware of how idiotic it all sounds. Doesn't matter. It still exists. I even have a friend whose husband has entered robotics competitions. That's right, Dude builds robots. For fun. Or so he says. He could be building a little robot army to overthrow and enslave everyone in the Lone Star State. I mean, what do I know? I'm fairly sure that this is NOT the case because he's actually a pretty chill guy, but even still I am always sure to be extra nice to him and always laugh loudly at his jokes. (Just kidding, BB... I laugh because you're hysterical. And so that I can be second in command of the Robotics Rebellion).

Anyway... after much ridicule by my friends, students, and near strangers about my sad little flip phone, I started to re-think my position. Then... when I saw a friend of mine (who is mildly technologically disadvantaged) tooling around on her brand new iPhone, the gauntlet was thrown.

So, yesterday, I marched myself down to the mall with Faith, my tech-savvy friend and leader of the flip phone ridicule, determined to get myself a Big Girl Phone. I stood at the edge of the techno pool, breathing deep and talking down my nerves, hoping to just stick my toe in and test the waters a bit. Newsflash, peeps. That pool? It's got a few sharks in it.

Seriously... I'm pretty sure Michael and Danny ('cause, yeah, we're totally on a first name basis), the Men in Orange, were standing in the front of the AT&T store, nonchalantly discussing the weather or the World Cup or maybe their favorite brand of hemorrhoid cream, when they suddenly paused, took a big whiff and found the smell of fear and hesitation in the air.

As soon as I said the word "upgrade", their eyes lit up like Christmas. When I took out my Samsung Freebie, they didn't even attempt to stifle their out-and-out laughter. I'm sure they thought they were taking a long shot when they threw out the iPhone plan, but little did they know that their guffawing was the only sales technique they needed. Laugh at me, will you? Mock me, huh? You're gonna point out my obviously lame taste in cell phones? Do you REALLY think I'll fall for such junior high, pop psychology tactics?

Damn straight I will.

My righteous indignation cost me yet again, and this time, it cost me a pretty penny.

Danny started in with the hard cell sell, and he knew just what he was doing. He hit me, Ali-style, with some "extended warranty", "data package", "rebate" kind of talk. Numbers swirled around me, and the percentage explanation? Get out of town. He could have been speaking Japanese to me for all I knew. Then, to top it all off, he asks me to look at the rack of shiny, multi-colored cases, and pick one. As if I wasn't dazed enough. Now I had to accessorize? I pointed to the Otter... obviously a super-expensive option... which ALL my friends had recommended, and asked him "What do you think about that one?"

I'm pretty sure he shit himself at that precise second.

"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed. And then he sprinted over to the counter, snatched up his own "personal" iPhone (which, in reality, could've been just a block of scrap wood, I was so confused), shoved it into the Otter case, held it out to me and said, "Now drop it." Was he effing for real? I started to back away, shaking my head furiously, and he, seeing the total fear in my eyes, reared back and spun that mo'fo' like some East German shotputter. The damn thing bounced -- BOUNCED, I tell you -- three times on the floor. From an 8 to 9 foot drop. Without a scratch.

The entire store's population looked at him like he'd just skipped a newborn down the escalator.

In the meantime, Michael has pulled up my home phone bill with the promise of finally taking off all the crap I've intended to remove for 3 years but have been too lazy to do so, and he is in like full-blown cardiac arrest over my cable, home phone, internet bundle. He is shaking his head, all shameful, and looking at me as if I've just been out in the backyard everyday lighting up barrelfuls of $20 bills.

Which, truthfully, I might as well have. But that's beside the point. Was I, D-effing-Nazty, going to let this chump push me around? Was I going to let him shame me into changing my cable provider, therefore forcing me to learn a whole new remote and dvr system, and rob me of all of the phone services that I was not currently using -- but might in the future?!

Damn skippy I did. Shame is my number one motivator. It gets me on the treadmill. It sends me to the dentist. It keeps me from cheating on my taxes. Shame completely works. It was like when, in those slapstick comedies, the bully waves one hand and distracts the other character's silly ass and then suckerpunches him with his free hand.

So while he's guaranteeing me a savings of almost 91 bucks a month -- and that's like $1,092 a year. I know, I just checked it on my iPhone calculator 'cause I'm too fancy for a regular calculator now -- Danny is giving me a crash course in iPhone technology, and my friend, Faith, is watching me and wondering when the next time I would actually breathe or blink would be. For real, I was staring at that dude like he'd just grown another head or announced that we were standing on the moon. Dumbstruck.

When they bring in the third guy who, by the way, wasn't even in the orange shirt, I almost backed out. I had honestly believed he was just another customer, shooting the breeze, until he started tapping out some secret codes on the computer and asking me for my social security number. He was like a Mafia boss -- always present, hardly seen. I started to wonder if any of those other customers were real, or if they were just decoys, hired to make everything seem to be a good idea. My palms were starting to sweat all over my new piece of the Apple Corporation when I heard Michael ask Faith what kind of phone she had.

"She's not even one of Y'ALL," I blurted out desperately. "She's a Sprint person!" I threw her out there like she was Frankenstein and they were some torch-wielding villagers. Other people shaming me works, but having shame for myself? Not a chance. I. have. no. shame. Not when the pressure is on. But Faith, as I stated before, is way more savvy than I, and she side-stepped their advances quite deftly.

After about 20 more minutes of sheer terror, they'd swiped my card, set up the arrival date for my Direct TV installation, made me promise to name my next pet after Steve Jobs (or Wozniak -- I guess either way, Steve, it is), and sent me on my way with a palmful of sci-fi smart. And, yes, it freaked my shit out. Twenty-four hours later, I'm still a little freaked out, but I have yet to start nuclear winter with it either. I wish we would have hidden around the corner to watch because I'm pretty sure they totally high-fived each other as I walked away.

So, if you're reading this, and chuckling to yourself, it's okay. But IF you beat me at Words with Friends, you'd better watch out because I WILL chunk my palmful of techno wizardry at your head, Naomi Campbell style, and bounce it 3-4 times off of your smart ass, vocabulary enriched noggin.

Because... oh yeah... I bought that ridiculously expensive phone cover AND the extended warranty, and I plan to get my money's worth.

Maybe I Shouldn't Have Watched The Biggest Loser Before Writing This...

Anyone who knows me understands a few important and helpful things about me.

A. I tend to make inappropriate jokes at completely awkward times (i.e. moments after a friend's home has been robbed and violated, funerals, etc.). It's a defense mechanism... usually to deter the following personal quirk:

B. I cry. Buckets. I'm not the cute, single-tear crier. That's for romantic comedies and Indians who do PSA's about the environment. It's not me. Doesn't matter when or why either -- happy, sad, frustrated, scared, what-have-you. More on that another day, but many times, tears stem from this:

C. I have numerous, entirely illogical fears. They range from simply unnerving to downright spine tingling, but much like how people with Autism fall all over what is known as the "Autism Spectrum", I have come up with a handy-dandy way to organize my plethora of weird and totally whack-ass phobias.

Only in the last 10 years have I really begun to identify the problem areas and start making a little sense -- and I use that term loosely -- of them. My closest friends would probably rearrange and add to all of this, but that's what the comments section is for. So, here, making its world debut is the "Spectrum of Terror". But I don't know how to make a timeline on this dang thing, so I'll have to improvise.


"The Lesser Evils"
These are things that might make my palms sweat, cause me to jump a little, or quickly (but quietly) suck in my breath in a gasp. They're not a huge deal and can usually be either deflected by caring friends or overcome within seconds. They are not a huge deterrent to my day.

Examples: balloons popping, deadlines, the split second that I think I've locked my keys in the car, people touching my ears, and little people (I've almost conquered this one with the TLC network. I mean -- thanks, TLC, your programming was worthwhile to at least one viewer, but, really two shows sneaking a peek at the trials and tribulations of the short-statured? Sounds like a network president with a fetish to me.)

"Knee Knockers and Quads Afire"
These are moments and things that do just what the label says... they make my knees weak, and then that feeling moves up to my quad muscles, essentially liquefying them. Recovery time is typically 2-3 minutes of sitting down and some light stretching.

Examples: getting pulled over by a cop, standing up at great heights, public speaking, walking down stairs without handrails, shopping at Sam Moon on a Saturday, and pictures of clowns.


"Nervous Tummy"
For those of you who are somehow new to my life -- or those of you who I might have wanted to retain some sort of polite civility in our friendship --this is precisely what it sounds like. You might want to skip this one because today, I'm gonna spell it out for you. This portion of the spectrum probably covers the greatest ground for me, ranging anywhere from slightly vomitous to near-pooping of the pantalones. Prescription: lots and lots of deep breathing through the nose and mouth, a damp washcloth for my face, and possibly several minutes alone in the nearest restroom.

Examples: technology taking over the world, the possum who lives in my backyard, a clown more than a hundred feet from me, The Shining, failure, night hikes at camp with Toni the Great, confrontation, and debt collectors. By the way, if you're a debt collector who likes rainbow wigs, creepy hotels, or absurdly fancy phones, you might as well check out now. I will not confront you about it ('cause I'm afraid), but we will never be friends. Ever. I don't even know how you got on this site.

"The Bone Chillers"
Last, but not least, are the things that have never ceased to send me into a panicked state, that encompass all other levels and symptoms -- sweaty palms, shaky knees, squeals, gasping, nausea and/or possible diarrhea, loss of speaking ability, and, of course, tears. Lots and lots of tears. Full-on heebie jeebies, people. There is no remedy for "The Bone Chillers". Neither therapy nor awkward hugs nor calming reassurances will allay my fear. The only possibility for help is complete repression of the memory or total avoidance of the situation before it presents itself. These are so big that they get their own bold AND italic font. That's serious in my world.

Clowns within a hundred feet of me. Clowns are seriously effed up beings, in my mind, whose diet consist mainly of helium sucked out of balloons and toddler blood. I am convinced that behind their painted on smiles are several rows of finely sharpened teeth and a deep need to make me one of their own. I try to allow all people of the world a fair chance with me (even you, debt collectors) no matter their race, creed, or socioeconomic status. But, clowns, you made your life choice with the rubber nose and the greasepaint. I can't help you anymore.

Things that scurry (tied with) dumpsters. I do... not... like... things that scurry. They're too fast, too unpredictable. Mice, roaches, little snakes (although they technically slither), hermit crabs, etc. They completely sick me out. As far as dumpsters go, believe me, I don't get it either. Sure, they're smelly and sometimes in a dark alley, but I grew up in the country where we burned our trash and didn't even have alleys. We barely even had streets. I still don't have an alley, and now I even have curbside pick-up. But, for the life of me, every time I open a dumpster, I am sure I am going to find a dead body. My only guess is that the root of this is some t.v. show I shouldn't have been watching as a young child which therefore scarred me beyond imagination. Yet as unfounded as it is, it still doesn't stop me from taking out my cell phone, dialing 911 and putting my thumb on the send button every time I do actually have to open that creaky lid and risk encountering a leftover corpse. And at camp, there's a distinct possiblity that something (a raccoon, a mouse, a feral cat) might scurry out of said dumpster. Two fears for the price of one.

Jillian from The Biggest Loser. This is actually a pretty new one because while I've watched the show periodically, I was never as intense about it as I am now. My mom told me once that she "so wanted me to go on that show". It stung for a moment -- my own mother pointing out the fact that my fat ass needed professional help and some nationally televised humiliation to get the ball rolling, but humiliation via my mom isn't even ON the Spectrum of Terror, so it barely even fazed me. After she said it, however, I pondered her advice for exactly 72 seconds as I watched Jillian get in the face of a struggling contestant, screech so violently that some spittle flew out and landed on the poor girl's tear-stained face, and demand that this plump little chickadee examine her innermost feelings about all the sadness in her life, all while maintaing a 2.5 incline on her treadmill. I cannot examine those things in a paid professional's office, so how in the hell did my mom expect her crybaby daughter to deal with that kind of interrogation? But that wasn't even the scariest part. Suddenly, she flipped the emotional switch, shut down the treadmill, plopped that girl down, scooted up next to her, and started whispering vague encouragement in the contestant's ear. (Hellooo... were you at all paying attention to my ear thing earlier? I cannot handle that scary bitch in my ear whispering positive words sprinkled with evil.) That only lasted about 14 more seconds before she turned to another contestant, climbed up on his back like a vicious little spider monkey, and then forced him to do chin-ups for like 38 minutes straight. Now she's got her own show whereupon she rolls up to YOUR HOUSE, rummages through your pantry and emotional hidey-holes, and apparently lounges on the couch with your dad (as evidenced in the preview) while you recover from the psychological and physical trauma. I'm sure she's a lovely person with the best of intentions, but... no... thank... you. She freaks my shit out.


*This chart is intended to be merely a guideline for informational purposes, and, in no way, should be used to test the limits of my sanity or bowel strength. Unless you're looking for a swift punch in the neck, jerk face.*