Eulogy for Some Khaki Shorts

I read once that newspapers have ongoing obituaries for celebrities and other famous people. They're called "advances", and by compiling them first and adding onto them as years go by, the writers can build and fact-check ahead of time so that when a celebrity dies, the newspaper can add in a few last facts and release it within hours or even moments of the announcement.

As a person who rarely plans in advance for anything -- dinner, stopping for gas, laundry -- I find this fascinating and smart.

As a person who struggles with goodbyes in any form, I find it freakish and morbid. It makes me glad to not be famous. It's enough to have cameras lurking around your bushes or following you to Starbucks; think of some lonely writer in the basement of your hometown gazette adding your latest Oscar nomination or car crash to your file, waiting for the day you croak and his touching tribute will land on everyone's doorstep.

But there are times where it's important to be prepared. Times where you must steel yourself against a loss that changes something in your very soul. Times where you ease into your goodbye slowly, like dipping a toe into the frigid ocean as opposed to waiting for a typhoon to swallow you up.

And so I begin to say goodbye to my favorite pair of khaki shorts.

Yes, I'm fully aware that may be the whitest white person sentence I've ever written. I own it, and I hate myself for it. The idea of khaki shorts is so suburban America, and the idea of having a beloved pair is downright embarrassing on levels I'm still learning to navigate. At least they weren't pleated.

But I'm sad, y'all.

I've seen it coming for a while now, and with each wear and wash, I have felt the slow creep of the trash can drawing near.

Oh, Death, thou art so beige.

I don't know how old these shorts are; I can't even measure time in BK or AK. I bought them at a discount store called Ellis Half Off which was remarkable because it was a dingy store front in a questionable part of our neighborhood, and all it contained was the irregulars and cast-offs from Target.

Can you imagine? Target. Cast-offs. Discounts. It's been gone for years, but that's grief I've already processed.

I found several pairs of khaki shorts there (one can never have too many khaki shorts and white t-shirts for your summer), but as it was a store of irregulars, this pair was the only one to fit. They had to be under $3.00 because nothing in there cost more than a bag of Taco Bell. This was its magic.

The tag read the wrong size, but over the years, the shorts have adapted to whatever size I had become. Lose a few pounds and the drawstring serves its purpose. Gain a few pounds and the cotton stretches fearlessly.

They're like the jeans from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, except they're shorts, and I'm not about to let someone else borrow them. Get your own khakis, sister.

I once spilled bright orange paint on them in the Health House at El Tesoro. It's been nearly a decade since I sat at that table, painting rocks and guzzling homemade salsa. I relegated them to camp shorts and lounge shorts after that, but within a few washes, the paint vanished.

They magically healed themselves to stay in my life, y'all. Khaki miracles are real.

With me, they've traveled a lot, and it shows.

My thighs rub like three wishes are gonna get granted.
The wear and tear is so real. Girls, I know you hear me.

They've traversed hundreds of miles over two different summer camps. They've soaked up the saltwater from the Atlantic and the chlorine from pools across Texas. They've helped me set up nearly every classroom I've been in at my school, and they comforted me through long, hot Saturday mornings, grading papers without A/C. They've taken hundreds of truck rides at the ranch and sat on the world's filthiest curb on Bourbon Street.

Even after a lifetime soaking in Tide and OxiClean, they smell like campfire smoke and homesick tears, cedar trees and freshly cut grass, spilled vodka and soft cotton. And they feel like going home.

I don't wear them out much anymore. They're the kind of shorts that you have to pre-plan your undergaments around because not only are they threadbare in places, but the seams threaten suicide on any given deep squat. And we've established I'm not much of a pre-planner.

In truth, the last couple of times I wore them on an errand, I scoped out my escape routes in case such a moment (and my underwears) came to light. This is not an anxiety that should accompany you to the public library.

Overdue books, yes. Your khaki shorts rotting off of your body, thread-by-thread, in the biography section, no.

So with much regret, I have decided their end is near.

I toyed with several methods of farewell: sewing shears, the Salvation Army donation box, a little Boyz II Men karaoke tribute, a Viking funeral.

None seemed appropriate.

So, I came home, placed them in the wash one more time and will place them in a box of other beloved but retired things.

And maybe next time I'm feeling sentimental or headed to the beach, I'll take them out to find them healed once more.

The orange paint glob was right there on the left leg, I swear it.

Farewell, old friend. It is, in fact, so hard to say goodbye.

Come On, America.

When I was 6, my parents moved us to the small Texas town of 2022 people.  I say this as if they'd moved us from some giant metropolis.  In truth, except for a few random memories of kindergarten torture in my previous home, I've never known anything other, and I still consider it to be my hometown even though I haven't lived there in nearly two decades.

Growing up in such a small and sheltered place (two stoplights, one Dairy Queen, and approximately 15 churches) had its distinct advantages.  I had very close friends who were more like family.  I benefited from a sound and extremely stable education (especially in junior high where I had the same teacher for each core class for 3 years straight).  I was safe to ride my bike, cruise in my car, or walk about town with little to no real concern of being snatched up.  Heck, I don't know that my parents ever even locked our front door until I went away to college.  I still sometimes forget to lock my car doors, 20 years later.

There were disadvantages too, of course.  In a town that small, everyone knows you.  Consequently, everyone knows all your business.  It can also get kind of boring.  Not much to do on a weekend night except for get into trouble.  Everything tends to run a few years behind, also -- cable tv, cell phones, politics, fashion (I know... as if I'm really ever one to comment on fashion).  And sometimes the sheltered state feels kind of like a police state, especially to a teenager.

Disadvantages aside, please understand that I truly love where I grew up.  It was idyllic in so many ways.  But it wasn't until I left those city limits that I really began to understand what I'd been missing.  See, in my hometown, everyone looked sort of the same.  Everyone had basically the same way of thinking.  I graduated with 33 people in my class.  Three were African-American; two were Hispanic.  And I didn't realize that it could be any other way.

When I graduated from college with my teaching degree, there was a real worry among my friends that I'd just stay there forever.  I'd been living there and doing my student teaching in my old junior high and high school, and all the members of my family and friends feared that the complacency and comfort would claim me.  I probably would have stayed if my mom and dad hadn't sat me down and told me "The life you're meant to lead isn't going to happen here.  You are meant for different things and different people."

It is still, to this day, the greatest gift I've ever been given -- the permission to leave.

So I moved to the DFW area and soon got my first teaching job at a junior high (7th and 8th grade) in Arlington.  In those two grades, there were 925 students.  In my childhood school, kindergarten -12th grade, there'd been less than 700.  Everywhere I looked, everyone looked different than I did.  My first teaching assignment was as an ESL teacher.  For the first time in my life, I was the only white face in the room.

I have never forgotten that feeling.

In the past 13 years at that same school, I've lived a different life for sure.  Very different from the first 18 years of my life.  I have taught students from all over the world -- France, Vietnam, Korea, China, Mexico, the Czech Republic, etc.  A few years ago, I had a student come to my room from Liberia.  He and his father and siblings hiked for three weeks, at night, to escape his country's civil war.  When we did free reading in class, he squatted under his desk, knees hunched up around his ears.  When I asked him about it, he told me, "That is how I used to get small when we would have to hide.  That is the way I feel safe."  He is also the student who would pick up pencil stubs and crumpled papers, always shaking his head at his wasteful American classmates.  I learned a lot from him.  Teaching those kids was a pretty big experience for a girl who had barely even left the state in any way other than through a book or a movie.

I've also had my eyes opened in a lot of other ways.  I've had students who were homeless.  Students whose family income is through drugs or prostitution.  Students who were pregnant at 13.  Students whose grandparents are only a few years older than I am (by the way, I am only 37).  Students whose parent(s) were incarcerated.  I've had students who went to jail themselves.  In my first year of teaching, the gang unit was called to our campus 4 times in one year to help combat the gang violence.  In one of my first assignments, I asked the kids to bring a family picture for a writing assignment.  One of my favorite kids brought a picture of him, his father, and his grandfather.  He showed me, and I promptly took it next door to ask a more seasoned teacher if they were, in fact, all throwing up gang signs.  They were, indeed.  There was also a two year old in the picture, attempting the same sign.  I also got to know a great many of our kids in that same school who came from regular two-parent, middle class families.  We had kids who grew up in multi-million dollar mansions and whose parents went to work as professional athletes.  We also had kids who grew up in the trailer park down the street.

It was the absolute strangest place I could have ever wound up.  I told my parents very vague details about my daily work life for fear that they'd make me quit on the spot.  Back then, I couldn't have told you why I stayed, but I know now.  I stayed because I loved those kids.  They were so interesting to my small-town self and their honesty and upfront way of dealing with me was such a completely foreign concept.  My students became my teachers about all of our cultural differences -- music, hair, dancing, humor, language -- and their delight in my inept fumblings and questions delighted them to no end.  In turn, they let me teach them, not just about English or basketball, but about the world outside their own city limits.

Their favorite subject was to interrogate me about my own past -- it still is to some extent.  Their eyes would widen as I would tell them about the introduction of the SECOND stoplight to my hometown or how local businesses would close completely for the Friday night football games.  They didn't believe that we had no ATM.  They scoffed at the fact that the nearest movie theater was 60 miles away.  But the statement that really caught their disbelief was the train tracks.  For the most part of my life, if you lived in town and were white, you lived on one side of the tracks; if you were black, you lived on the other side.  They would shake their heads and tell me that such things weren't legal.  I laughed and told them that I didn't really think that this had been a continual legal battle but that society's laws and rules are far more often likely to set the tone than any bow-legged sheriff.  They would question me at length about the differences between the two sides and if I thought of my beloved hometown as "full of racism and prejudice".  And always there was the question of "where do the mixed-race kids live"?  That was a very difficult and hurtful conversation -- for me and for the biracial child innocently asking the question.

Another teacher told me once that I shouldn't share my background with the students, that it would provide fodder for them to accuse me of being racist when a disagreement arose (because of my obviously racist upbringing).  But I just couldn't do it; I think it's important to have a firm grip on where we've been in order to know where we're headed.

All the time in my classes, I talk to my kids about differences.  I explain very early on that I'm here to provide a safe space for learning and that ignoring someone's differences doesn't eliminate their differences.  We talk and debate very freely about lots of issues, including things like religion and race and culture.  But we try to also educate each other instead of alienate one another.  Sometimes I think about what I hear from them -- what it's like to be a young black man, what it's like to sit in a classroom full of people speaking a different language, or what it's like to struggle with whether to wear a hijab in a world of girls with ponytails and curls -- and I remember those first few moments of loneliness and fear when I looked out into a room that did not reflect me.

That's not to say that life in my classroom is perfect.  It looks vastly different than the school and town I grew up in, but some of the same issues still reside.  At least once a week, we have to discuss why I won't allow a certain song (because it has the "n" word).  And I often have to defend my stance that NOBODY gets to use that word in class.  I have had to explain the term "wetback" to a student who claimed to think it was about people working in the sun and sweating.  FYI... it does not.  (I also knew that he didn't really understand because he called a Caucasian student that after a football practice.)  I've had to differentiate that all Hispanics are not Mexican and that not all Hispanics are illegal immigrants to a young man in a philosophical debate.  I cannot even begin to tell you the struggles I had trying to illuminate that a person can, in fact, be both Asian AND Chinese (and that the kid wasn't just trying to pull a fast one on this girl).  I literally thought my head would explode from the effort.  We've also recently had to tackle "that's gay", "retarded", and "no homo".  I'm really ready for the repetition of  "no homo" after-any-compliment trend to be done.

And my kids aren't alone.  I've said some (at best) culturally insensitive things in my lifetime.  I'm certainly not proud of it, and I suppose that someone could rake me over the coals for it if they wanted to dig deep enough.  But I'd also like to think that I'm pretty aware now of other people and what's hurtful.  It's a conscious choice to not go around being a jerk.  And the best way to not be a jerk is to educate yourself about people who are different than your own self.  My students hear other adults, celebrities, songs, movies, comedy routines, and they assume that because something is "okay" there, it's "okay" for them as well.  Being teenagers, it's also hard to get them to avoid pushing a button just for the delight of pushing the button.

So last night, I started hearing about Richie Incognito being suspended from the Miami Dolphins for -- you guessed it -- bullying a teammate with -- yep, you guessed it -- some disgusting slurs and other foul messages.  Yet another white dude tossing out a racial slur in order to show his manliness or get his way or just be an idiot -- I don't know.  It seems that every time I turn around, someone, somewhere is acting a fool seemingly just to act a fool.  And, of course, there's always someone else willing to stand up and defend the fool.  Happens all the time.  Just take a look at social media once in a while.

Man, social media is like friggin' truth serum.  People get behind that profile pic and keyboard and just go buck wild with their nonsense.  Social media shows you all the deep dark places people don't talk about at parties.

And every time I see it, I'm right back in my classroom.  Because that's what I've decided most social media (and much of the mainstream media) is -- a classroom of stubborn, selective-hearing, excuse-making teenagers.  My students give me the same arguments when they are a jerk to someone else.  And they are, often, jerks to each other. Their favorite way to be a jerk is to crack a couple of racially/culturally charged jokes.  It unnerves me to no end, and we wind up in a whole lot of  discussions about self-worth and self-reflection and treating others the way you'd want to be treated.  So to see people with a voice or a platform or a little influence throw some backward thinking out into the world for my students to emulate, I get a little pissed.

So here's my lesson, America, and I'm only going to say it once:

• Rape jokes.  Not funny.
• Slurs -- racial, religious, sexual.  Not funny.
• Mocking the mentally challenged.  Not funny.
• Costuming yourself as a survivor of a horrific tragedy.  Not funny.
• And while we're on costumes... black face.  Not funny.
• Bullying.  Not funny. 

Come on, America.  I need you to think before you speak.  Think before you hit "send".  Think before you do.  Because your kids are watching and learning, and you're creating a whole lot of extra work for me.  And that pisses me off more than just your average stupidity.

Safe. Stable. Stale.

I've never been a daring person.

I don't jump off the high dive; I ease in, one toe at a time.  I drive the speed limit.  I stay off-stage when we go to karaoke.  I've never done drugs or paid too much for shoes or got in the car without a map.  I've never gone all in.  I've never put a blue streak in my hair or gotten a tattoo.

I am dependable and careful and responsible.  I do the right thing even when it's not what I want to do.  I say what others want to hear, measuring my words on a Richter scale, calculating risk and damage.  I don't rock the boat; I hand out the life jackets.  I hide behind what if's and should have's and unused wishes.

I wonder if I've lived my life avoiding regrets only to wind up with a soul full of them.

Safe. Stable. Stale.

There's Just No Class For This...

So yesterday, I wrote about the mysteries of the 7th grade boy.

Today, I found no answers.  Only more questions.

In 4th period, one of my guys was rummaging in his zip-up binder (just a modern-day, less-cool Trapper Keeper in my opinion).  That binder is where both homework and logic go to die.  In a 5 minute span, he took out a key, 8 markers, a half-eaten Pop-Tart, and a stick of deodorant.

I watched him stare at the Speedstick for a minute or so before I asked what he was doing.

"Trying to figure out if I put this on today."

Now... I must admit, there have definitely been rushed mornings where I perhaps have run out the door without my Secret swipe, but it only takes about 5 minutes to know I've made a huge mistake.  I go to sticky pit panic fairly quickly.  But it was 12:30 PM, and we were in the middle of composing an essay.

So I went with my go-to advice in most situations: "Better safe than sorry, man."  I assumed that he would ask to go to the bathroom and handle his business.  After 14 years, I still have not learned my lesson on assumptions.

I was reminded about the mistake of assuming when he popped the cap off and started up his shirt to deodorize his pits.  At. His. Desk.  Completely unaware.  Thankfully, his classmates happened to be working and not paying attention to him.

All I could do was advise him to go out to do this and try not to laugh.  I assume he went to the bathroom, but someone might want to check the hallway camera.

I love my university, and I think I got a pretty quality education.  But there's just no class for shit like this.

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.

Cooperative Learning

I have always been a dog person.  I love dogs, even the little yappy ones.  Dogs are goofy and funny and you can take them on a walk or for a drive in the car.  Dogs go places.

Dogs also require a little attention.  They have to go outside to the bathroom.  They are pack animals, so they need interaction.  And unless you have the little yappy ones, they need a lot of room.

When I started at Nichols JH 13 years ago, I knew that I'd be living in an apartment.  I also knew that I'd be working really long hours as both a teacher and a coach -- sometimes never seeing the sun except for offseason workouts.  So I took home the tiny calico kitten that had resided in our camp office all summer.

I actually have 3 cats now.  They rule my house, and it's a good thing that I have such a kind heart and guilty conscience.  Otherwise, I would have thrown them all out this week.  Ransom spilled a Diet Coke on my computer and then, 5 minutes later, turned over the refill.  Maggie tried, on several attempts, to eat some hair dye.  And Pootie wakes me up every summer morning at 6:00 AM to feed them.  She does not like her strict diet, and her internal clock is very efficiently attuned to 6:00 and 6:00.  Who needs an alarm when you could just have a 19 pound cat stand on your chest?  Also, 95% of the time, they still all hate each other.  On the regular, I hear squalls of terror only to find someone cornered by another.  I'd remove the bully, but they all just sort of take turns being it.

But since I've been home all summer, I've noticed that cooperation seems to be increasing among them -- at least between Poots and Ransom.  Three times this week, I've woken up to a clatter.  It seems that they've figured out how to break into the old popcorn tin that keeps their food.  They use their noses to push on the lid until it's loosened and then Ransom knocks it off with her paw.  I've tried moving the can, placing heavy objects on top, etc. to little avail.  This morning, there was no clatter, but I did sit up in bed just in time to see two waving tails sticking out of the top of the can and the lid on top of the cat bed.  Cooperative learning at its finest. Unsurprisingly, Maggie the Cat is the only one who hasn't caught on yet.  I mean... hair dye, people.

So if your dog's driving you crazy with all the walking and need for frisbee catching, let me know.  I'm willing to make a trade.

Laundry Woes

Laundry Day is my nemesis.

I don't like dishes. I'm not the greatest at cooking. And I think making my bed is sort of ridiculous. I do it, but it's not my favorite thing. There's satisfaction in climbing into a well-made bed at least.

But laundry. Laundry is really what makes my blood boil.

My dear friend, Courtney swears that she has the world's most intense laundry situation, but she also has 3 kids under the age of 5. I think that if you have 3 kids under the age of 5, the government should just issue you an extra person for laundry and mopping alone.

Not me though. I have zero excuse. It's just me making (and ignoring) this mess.

Several things come into play when it comes to Naz vs. Laundry.  Of course, there's the Bermuda Triangle of Socks.  10 socks go in, but only 7 come out.  It's unnerving, but I have the bad habit of leaving my socks everywhere, so I can never be sure if 10 matching socks went in at once.

I'm not down with separating clothes either.  I will be the first to admit that I am firmly against Laundry Segregation.  Whites, colors -- we all mix in this house.  Throw 'em in and put it on cold.  And for all of you screaming about cold water, that's why they make the detergent SPECIFICALLY for cold water washes. God bless you, Tide, for understanding my needs.

Then there are the things that can't go in the dryer.  Sweet buckets of love, I cannot tell you how many things I've ruined with the dryer.  I will separate those out.  Those things are typically pretty expensive.

Along with the sock trauma, I am also the world's worst at checking my pockets before stuffing clothes into the wash.  I had to retire a whole load of t-shirts to a rogue lip gloss explosion in the dryer. Sharpie markers and highlighters and paper clips are constantly sneaking past me.  Pro Tip: Highlighter will come out; Sharpie, not so much.

I also am a stockpiler.  I have enough sheets and towels to last me at least 2 months.  So, when the linen cabinet is bare, it's a whole day's work.  I'm currently remedying this in the Great Closet Clean-out of 2013. Hopefully.  Additionally, my laundry hook-ups are on a screened-in back porch.  Because I live in Texas, there are only about 17 days a year where it's a normal temperature outside to turn on the dryer or not have the washing machine freeze.

Those things are a deterrent for lots of people I know, but in truth, they are only minor obstacles for me. Because I have to have clean clothes, I will force myself to do the wash eventually.

But the real problem is this:  putting it away.  I can fold t-shirts and match socks (sometimes).  But going on the search and rescue mission for empty hangers in the closet is defeating.  Picking it all up and then taking it to its rightful place in the closet or dresser is too much.  It's like I just quit at the finish line of the marathon.

So, the clean laundry sits -- typically folded but not always -- in the basket or on the kitchen table or hangs over the backs of the chairs.  I have been known to live out of my laundry baskets for weeks -- especially in the busiest parts of the school year.  It's so embarrassing.  But obviously not embarrassing enough to make me stop.

For the record, I'm also terrible about putting CD's or DVD's back in the correct cases or taking the clean dishes out of the dish drainer and placing them on their shelves.  I'm a mess.

In one of my favorite movies, "Singles", by Cameron Crowe, one of the characters says this:

Janet: Well, when I first moved out here from Tucson, I wanted a guy with looks, security, caring, someone with their own place, someone who said “bless you” or “gesundheit” when I sneezed, you know. Someone who liked the same things as me but not exactly. Someone who loves me.

Steve: Tall order.

Janet: Yeah, I scaled it down a little.

Steve: Well, what is it now?

Janet: Someone who says “gesundheit” when I sneeze. Although I’d prefer “bless you” – it’s nicer.

I'll just take someone who'll put the laundry away for me.  Matching socks: optional.

Where Does the Time Go?

The last two days, I've been clearing room on my computer, getting rid of pictures I don't need anymore and music I'm still embarrassed to have.

I spent today cleaning out closets and sorting through the build-up of life.  

If you're ever in need of a reality check... sort through some old drawers and shelves.  The Ghost of Youth Past is totally holed up in there.  

I got kind of caught up in looking at some old photo albums -- mainly from when I was in high school.  There were lots of good memories and more than a few regrets.  But I'm glad I found them.  I hadn't looked at them in a few years.

This picture was taken 21 years ago.  It's the first picture I have of my oldest nephew, Hunter.  That baby drinks beer now -- legally.

And then I found this picture.  It's 21 years old too.  It's a classic of me and one of my best childhood friends, Christel.  It seems like forever ago and 10 minutes ago all in the same breath.

After finding this, I think I'm going to go drink a beer, too.  And maybe say a little thank-you prayer for eyebrow shaping and hair straighteners.  Yikes.

Man.  Where does time go? 

My favorite song from that year.  Still one of my top plays.  

Some things never change, I suppose

Just a Little Trip to Target

There are few things I love in the world more than Target.

Target is a spiritual experience. It is my Mecca. Seriously. I see God in sunsets, in the faces of children, and in the bed and bath aisles at Target.

It's right next to my nail salon, so it's a favored option to wander and sober up after a few too many glasses of the free wine. Even sober, though, I can meander around for hours, shopping needlessly, and never feel bored. This is a problem since it's also the only acceptable grocery store near me. It's also a problem because I've been on a fairly tight budget recently.

So today, I went in with a game plan. In my hand, I had a list of groceries. In my heart, a solemn vow to stick to the grocery list. With such a sound plan in place, I hoped to get out in under $75 or 30 minutes whichever came first. It would be a monumental point in my life, a turning point if you will. Finally, I'd be a responsible grown-up.

And then I saw the firemen. Sunday afternoons are like Firehouse shopping day or something. They're always in there on there. Typically I don't mind this at all. In fact, some Sundays, I fantasize about setting a fire on Aisle 12. Not because I'm a firebug or anything, just because, you know... Wowsers. So I got a tad distracted.

I also realized today why I usually just listen to a podcast while I shop. There's no need to sing along with a podcast. Especially to sing along at an unusually loud volume with JT. A few people got a pretty good performance of "Mirrors" while I browsed hair care products. I might have even danced a little. If so, I'm sorry, Target shoppers.

And, yes, I am the weirdo with ear buds in while at the store. I find it deters salespeople and small talk -- two things I'm not good at avoiding otherwise.

I did allow myself to take one quick browse outside the grocery aisles just to snap a few photos of wish list items. Plus, one of the fire guys was investigating a new bath mat. I swooned a little. Not gonna lie. All in all though, I'd call today's Target adventure a success -- $80, 45 minutes, no fires, and only slight humiliation.

This responsible grown-up stuff ain't easy, y'all.

Snow Day Survival

I've been stuck in my house for 72 hours now due to the icy streets and mind-numbingly cold temperatures. That, coupled with the rolling black-outs I'm guessing, persuaded my normally stingy district to cancel 4 days of classes. Each day, I've been sure that "Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will surely be back at school." So, I've tried to keep my sleep schedule and be responsible.

But as tomorrow is Friday, and we are still not going back to work, I ventured out to the store for some groceries.

Cheap champagne... orange juice... Nutter Butters.

You know. ESSENTIALS.

Also: my laundry facilities are located on my unheated, ice-cold back porch, and doing laundry (without busting a water line) has been an issue. So I bought two new pairs of pajama pants and a pack of underwear.

So much easier than a laundromat.

Eff responsibility. Tomorrow, I'm gonna tie one on in my new pajamas. Before 10:00 AM.

It's important to have goals.