I loves me some Diet Coke.
Loves.
Really, a Diet Coke from QT, with some crushed ice is basically my A.M. lifeblood. And P.M. Let's be real. It's an all-day love affair.
So one might wonder, considering my loyal dedication to this nectar of the Gods, why I've decided to try to give it up. Because I'm stupid. That's why.
It started on Saturday with me being frugal. Wait. Strike that. Lazy. Yes, that's the word I'm looking for. I was so tired/lazy on Saturday morning, I couldn't go to the store. I couldn't get out of my pajamas or brush my hair. Not that theses are deterrents for anyone looking to visit my local Wal-Martz.
So I thought to myself, "Hey, Self. You don't need no stinkin' Diet Coke! Have some tasty tap water instead!"
This is the moment I needed someone to intervene. But I live alone, and I'm pretty convincing, so I talk myself into some stupid shit all the time.
I lived off the tap water for a couple of hours before the first twinges of caffeine withdrawal settled in. I popped some ibuprofen and brewed some tea. I staved off the shakes for another couple of hours, and thus decided, "This isn't so hard! I could totally give up Diet Coke! Think of the money I'll save!"
Again. I live alone. And I'm fairly stupid at times. And stubborn.
By Sunday afternoon, I believe I was in full-blown Diet Coke de-tox. But I was determined. Because I'm absurdly competitive, even with only myself. Even when I literally could not peel myself off the couch for a while because my head and body ached so badly.
I think the Betty should open a wing just for recovering Diet Coke-heads.
I did manage to get up this morning although I cracked and had one normal-sized Diet Coke. I did not, however, strangle a child or co-worker as I was afraid I would.
But tomorrow's a new day.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Ring the Bell
Sometimes, you suffer what feels like a soul-crushing defeat. It feels that every turn of good luck is met with an equally powerful dose of bad luck.
But here's the good news.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise. Your kids will smile at you, and you will find yourself smiling back. Your favorite song will come on the radio, and you'll find yourself humming along. Maybe you check your winter coat pocket and find a leftover 10 spot. Or maybe you don't, but the sun's still up and you've still got a chance to turn things around.
And that's when you find out what you truly believe.
I'm sad for our Rangers. I'm devastated for my long-time, die-hard Ranger faithful friends. It is little salve to say that it was an incredible match of wills and determination that unfortunately didn't go our way. But here's what people don't realize: sometimes you are strongest and most dangerous with your back against the wall, and that's when the fighters really step into the ring.
So shake off the bad. Lace up your gloves. Wait for the bell. Come out swinging.
And tomorrow, when you walk out the door, don't forget to check your pockets.
But here's the good news.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise. Your kids will smile at you, and you will find yourself smiling back. Your favorite song will come on the radio, and you'll find yourself humming along. Maybe you check your winter coat pocket and find a leftover 10 spot. Or maybe you don't, but the sun's still up and you've still got a chance to turn things around.
And that's when you find out what you truly believe.
I'm sad for our Rangers. I'm devastated for my long-time, die-hard Ranger faithful friends. It is little salve to say that it was an incredible match of wills and determination that unfortunately didn't go our way. But here's what people don't realize: sometimes you are strongest and most dangerous with your back against the wall, and that's when the fighters really step into the ring.
So shake off the bad. Lace up your gloves. Wait for the bell. Come out swinging.
And tomorrow, when you walk out the door, don't forget to check your pockets.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Buyer Beware. It's a $30 Rant.
What might that be? A clean desk? No... A new manicure? Not so much...
It's a pencil. That's right. A pencil. And before you roll your eyes and click that little red "x" in the corner, understand this... That's a $30.00 pencil.
Oh, you heard me right. I didn't stutter. That, my friends, is a $30.00, not-fancy, not-even-mechanical, will-be-devoured-in-5-turns-of-my-jacked-up-pencil-sharpener kind of pencil.
Uh. huh.
Now, I have to confess. I didn't know that I was buying a $30.00 pencil. Frankly, I hate pencils. Detest them. The writing's faint and reflects the light. They smudge. They leave eraser shavings all over my desks and require no less than 23 trips to the pencil sharpener per day. I abhor pencils.
So, I'm sure that you're positively puzzled as to how I wound up with such an unwanted treasure. Well, I'll tell you.
I donated to a charitable cause. And this was my "thank you". I found it in an envelope addressed to me. Without so much as a thank you form letter inside.
A pencil. In an envelope.
Now, before I get tens of emails/comments chiding me with phrases like, "It's the thought that counts" or "You should be grateful for even the smallest things" and treat me like some ungrateful wench, understand this: I love to give. Love it. Can't resist it. I buy cookie dough and gift wrap and coffee from every little kid with a fundraiser pamphlet. I don't even drink coffee, but I'll buy it. You're jumping rope for heart? Tell me how much your mom pledged. I'll probably double it. Bowling for Kids? Knock $50 worth of pins down for me! You've lost your mind and decided to run 26.2 miles for cancer research? Better you than me! Here's my check, Crazy Face!
That's who I am. A
You are funding educational grants for teachers who never have the funds to do all the things for their students that they can? I'm in for $30! And normally, I'd be in for a lot more ,but I bought a crap ton of giftwrap and coffee this year. For real, you're all getting coffee. for Christmas. Or Tuesday. Gift-wrapped coffee.
Understand another thing, however, before you place that trinket in an envelope with a scrap of paper with my name taped to the front (I mean for God's sake, can't you at least take the time to hand write my name?). I DON'T WANT IT! In fact, it seems a tad trite and pathetic. And junky. It makes me wonder how when our state and district is in an enormous budget crunch, you're still shelling out the bucks to Oriental Trading Company for engraved pencils or coffee mugs.
Last year, when I donated a bit more, I got a mug. For the coffee I don't drink. But at least I can't sharpen away a coffee mug. For real.
More than just the ridiculous eyeroll that one little pencil brought on, it made me start to think about our entire society, and I became outraged. That's right. Pencil = All of Society's Problems.
That's how my Rage Brain works. Just FYI, I'm like the Incredible Hulk of Illogical Rage.
"DEANA NO LIKE YOUR CRAPPY LITTLE PENCIL. DEANA BREAK PENCIL IN TINY PIECES!"
Why does our society
I fully understand that not every kindness should merit a plaque or medal or t-shirt or even a coffee cup. It shouldn't. You shouldn't do something with the expectation of getting a return; feeling good about yourself should be quite sufficient. But it is nice to be appreciated. It's really nice. Just don't patronize me. Sometimes it's enough just to hear a thank you, receive a hug, or see a picture of what your small kindness created. Instead of just figuring out a way to spend a little money to say thanks for gathering a ton of money, THINK. Think about who gave the gift. Think about who they are as a person. Know your audience. Grab someone's heart, and you're sure to get a lifetime of contributions. Junk up their desk drawers and kitchen cabinets, and all you'll get is an eyeroll and a healthy dose of Rage Brain Hulk-a-Mania. I guarantee it.
Lest I leave this on a bitter note, I made sure today to not just take pictures of that measly pencil. I also wanted to share some of the notes and thank-yous that mean the most to me.
1. A thank-you note from a co-worker after his adoption shower. It wasn't just the note; it was the words he chose and they way those words spoke to me. While we'd worked together for 11 years and become friends, I would never have thought that my presence and support could mean so much. And when he called me Aunt Deana, I was hooked. I look at that note, with it's crayon-scrawled 6 year-old signature, every day when I go to work. I didn't take a picture. I wish I had now. It's completely precious.
2. Home-made certificate. On plain white paper. Cheap but clever. Clever always works. In case you can't read it, it's a Taco Bell Fire Sauce packet, and it says, "Thanks for all your hard work! You've really been on FIRE" and "Way to think 'Outside the Bun'". I'll never throw it away.
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| For just the cost of a bean burrito, you can make someone's day... |
or this one:
3. I found it in my mailbox at work. A plain piece of paper with the words "You're doing a great job" penciled in. No reason. No signature. But I found it on a day when I really wasn't believing I was doing a great job. Even though I recognized the writing right away, it didn't matter. At all. Because THAT'S when the thought really counts.
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| Although in pencil, not in $30 pencil. |
or this:
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| This picture screams, "My run and your donation are helping to kick Cancer's ass!" |
That's my sort-of sister, Amanda, after finishing her 13.1 mile half-marathon. It was my pleasure to donate to her cause. I got a wonderful thank you on my Facebook and even better -- a chance to see her success, in full-on America's Next Top Model jumping fashion. And her smile.
Or this:
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| I'll wait while you sop your melted heart up off the floor. |
So go forth. Be gracious and giving, and when someone gives to you, don't forget to say thanks.
But not with a pencil.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Reconciling Wrigley for the Rangers
I have always loved baseball.
Maybe it's the combination of the smells of freshly mown grass and the leather of a glove. Maybe it's the laid-back feel of a warm afternoon game. Maybe it's that the season starts in the spring, a notorious symbol of re-birth and hope. I do love a good notorious symbol, you know. Or maybe it's just the child-like simplicity of having a catch and swinging the bat. Whatever the reason, I loved it.
As a child, my earliest memories are of going to see my mom's league softball team play. I think she played 2nd base and maybe a little shortstop. My dad was their coach. I barely ever paid attention (I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6), but I will never forget the clang of the ball on the bat, the moths hovering around the stadium lights or the taste of a purple sno-cone on my tongue.
As I got older, I would bring home my softball league form and stare at it obsessively until my mom filled out the form. Then she, or my dad, or my brother, and I would go out to the yard to start warming up my arm. Games out on our dusty old field. My coach, Ricci, with a cigarette tucked behind her ear and good ol' Martha Harris strutting up to the plate to knock me in. And Lord, could that girl ever swing the bat.
And when I couldn't play ball, I was watching it on TV. When I was young, my hick-town television got four channels: ABC, NBC, CBS... and WGN. The Chicago station. Because that makes perfect sense for Clarendon, America. Every summer day, I'd catch a Cubs game and watch Andre Dawson and Shawon Dunston and Greg Maddux and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg... oh, Ryne Sandberg, how I loved you. I learned everything I know about 2nd basemen from you. Turning a double play without getting taken out by the runner. Taking care of your shortstop. Applying the tag on a steal. I probably should have mentioned you in my 1988 little league MVP speech. Well, if I'd had one. Or if I'd been the MVP.
Sigh.
Every fall, however, I'd be disappointed. But a Cub fan wears her disappointment like a badge of honor, so I never gave up hope. It's the thing that everyone who is not a Cubs fan detests about Cubs fans. Someday, my team would be in that World Series. Someday.
Even when I moved to a city where there's an actual major league team, I couldn't let the good ol' days go. Sure, I took my first trip to a major league game at the Ballpark, and I even got to see my Cubs up close and personal during inter-league play once. It was wonderful but not nearly so incredible as it was to be 10 years old, cross-legged and too close to the t.v. with my fingers crossed and a prayer for a win upon my lips. And no seventh inning stretch touches a Harry Caray rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". I loved Harry Caray. There was a hopefulness in the start of each broadcast that you just couldn't shake.
Somewhere along the way, I lost that love for the sport. I didn't hate it necessarily. I went to games. I tuned in when I had time. The postseason just always seemed to take a backseat to my need to finish a 7th grade volleyball season with my spirit intact. Also, the thought of squeezing my eyes shut and whispering a prayer for 9 innings, all the way to Chicago (as an adult because I totally did it as a kid) just felt a little silly. Then, in the summer of 2010, the Rangers started picking up steam and stirring up trouble. And just like that, I fell back in love with baseball. Lord, I fell hard. It wasn't just that they were winning, and it wasn't simply that they were making such dear friends of mine so incredibly happy. It was that they made it fun again. Every time they made Bullwinkle-style antler hands or put up the claw or hugged each other in the dug-out, it felt real. And genuine. And hopeful.
My Lord, it felt hopeful. And I do love hopeful.
I tried not to fall for them because I'm supposed to be a Cubs fan. It felt like cheating. Was I cheating? Or worse? Was I on the... bandwagon? *shudder*
Every game I went to or run that I cheered, I wondered if ol' Harry was up in Heaven, shaking his great big, beer-soaked noggin at me and wondering how it is that I couldn't name a single Cubs player on the roster but I could name every Ranger. The disapproval staring me down from behind those big black frames was almost too much to bear. I couldn't help it though. They got to me. They lured me in with their enthusiasm, as boundless as their bats and baserunning, and their work ethic. I can't help but wonder how much Harry Caray would love these guys. I think he'd love them quite a bit.
For the past few months, I've been keeping a close eye on the boys. And as the season's intensified, so has my angst. Not just in the last remaining guilt that I hold on to, but also... how do I handle the fact that the team I'm supporting is not only in the World Series but is leading the Series' standing? I've never been on the winning side of a baseball series in late October. Yet as the games go by, and I catch myself changing, mid-game, into my "lucky shirt" from the hamper, screaming obscenities at Tony LaRussa and Albert Pujols (who cannot hear me in St. Louis, but no matter), whispering a prayer with each at-bat, and running the bases with Elvis and Ian and Wash, I find that I'm closer to that 10 year-old Cubs fan than I've been in a long, long time. She just happens to be in a (possibly dirty) Rangers shirt. And it feels good. And genuine. And right.
So, now I'm a Rangers fan who still really loves the Cubs. And Ryne Sandberg. Guilt-free.
But that's okay with me because A) They are a team who seems to genuinely like one another and have a hell of a good time playing baseball together. I adore that. 2) I take comfort in the idea of not only rooting for the Rangers but also against the Cards (a longtime Cubbie rival). Finally) On Sunday night, Derek Holland even introduced the ghost of Harry Caray to a whole new generation. I'm sure that Harry did shake his big ol' noggin at that one just before he started laughing. Then he cracked open a Budweiser.
And this... tell me there's not just a little resemblance.
Or is it just me? I'm taking it as a blessing.
Go Rangers.
Maybe it's the combination of the smells of freshly mown grass and the leather of a glove. Maybe it's the laid-back feel of a warm afternoon game. Maybe it's that the season starts in the spring, a notorious symbol of re-birth and hope. I do love a good notorious symbol, you know. Or maybe it's just the child-like simplicity of having a catch and swinging the bat. Whatever the reason, I loved it.
As a child, my earliest memories are of going to see my mom's league softball team play. I think she played 2nd base and maybe a little shortstop. My dad was their coach. I barely ever paid attention (I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6), but I will never forget the clang of the ball on the bat, the moths hovering around the stadium lights or the taste of a purple sno-cone on my tongue.
As I got older, I would bring home my softball league form and stare at it obsessively until my mom filled out the form. Then she, or my dad, or my brother, and I would go out to the yard to start warming up my arm. Games out on our dusty old field. My coach, Ricci, with a cigarette tucked behind her ear and good ol' Martha Harris strutting up to the plate to knock me in. And Lord, could that girl ever swing the bat.
And when I couldn't play ball, I was watching it on TV. When I was young, my hick-town television got four channels: ABC, NBC, CBS... and WGN. The Chicago station. Because that makes perfect sense for Clarendon, America. Every summer day, I'd catch a Cubs game and watch Andre Dawson and Shawon Dunston and Greg Maddux and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg... oh, Ryne Sandberg, how I loved you. I learned everything I know about 2nd basemen from you. Turning a double play without getting taken out by the runner. Taking care of your shortstop. Applying the tag on a steal. I probably should have mentioned you in my 1988 little league MVP speech. Well, if I'd had one. Or if I'd been the MVP.
Sigh.
Every fall, however, I'd be disappointed. But a Cub fan wears her disappointment like a badge of honor, so I never gave up hope. It's the thing that everyone who is not a Cubs fan detests about Cubs fans. Someday, my team would be in that World Series. Someday.
Even when I moved to a city where there's an actual major league team, I couldn't let the good ol' days go. Sure, I took my first trip to a major league game at the Ballpark, and I even got to see my Cubs up close and personal during inter-league play once. It was wonderful but not nearly so incredible as it was to be 10 years old, cross-legged and too close to the t.v. with my fingers crossed and a prayer for a win upon my lips. And no seventh inning stretch touches a Harry Caray rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". I loved Harry Caray. There was a hopefulness in the start of each broadcast that you just couldn't shake.
 |
| "Ah-ONE. Ah-TWO. AH-THREE!" |
Somewhere along the way, I lost that love for the sport. I didn't hate it necessarily. I went to games. I tuned in when I had time. The postseason just always seemed to take a backseat to my need to finish a 7th grade volleyball season with my spirit intact. Also, the thought of squeezing my eyes shut and whispering a prayer for 9 innings, all the way to Chicago (as an adult because I totally did it as a kid) just felt a little silly. Then, in the summer of 2010, the Rangers started picking up steam and stirring up trouble. And just like that, I fell back in love with baseball. Lord, I fell hard. It wasn't just that they were winning, and it wasn't simply that they were making such dear friends of mine so incredibly happy. It was that they made it fun again. Every time they made Bullwinkle-style antler hands or put up the claw or hugged each other in the dug-out, it felt real. And genuine. And hopeful.
My Lord, it felt hopeful. And I do love hopeful.
I tried not to fall for them because I'm supposed to be a Cubs fan. It felt like cheating. Was I cheating? Or worse? Was I on the... bandwagon? *shudder*
Every game I went to or run that I cheered, I wondered if ol' Harry was up in Heaven, shaking his great big, beer-soaked noggin at me and wondering how it is that I couldn't name a single Cubs player on the roster but I could name every Ranger. The disapproval staring me down from behind those big black frames was almost too much to bear. I couldn't help it though. They got to me. They lured me in with their enthusiasm, as boundless as their bats and baserunning, and their work ethic. I can't help but wonder how much Harry Caray would love these guys. I think he'd love them quite a bit.
For the past few months, I've been keeping a close eye on the boys. And as the season's intensified, so has my angst. Not just in the last remaining guilt that I hold on to, but also... how do I handle the fact that the team I'm supporting is not only in the World Series but is leading the Series' standing? I've never been on the winning side of a baseball series in late October. Yet as the games go by, and I catch myself changing, mid-game, into my "lucky shirt" from the hamper, screaming obscenities at Tony LaRussa and Albert Pujols (who cannot hear me in St. Louis, but no matter), whispering a prayer with each at-bat, and running the bases with Elvis and Ian and Wash, I find that I'm closer to that 10 year-old Cubs fan than I've been in a long, long time. She just happens to be in a (possibly dirty) Rangers shirt. And it feels good. And genuine. And right.
So, now I'm a Rangers fan who still really loves the Cubs. And Ryne Sandberg. Guilt-free.
But that's okay with me because A) They are a team who seems to genuinely like one another and have a hell of a good time playing baseball together. I adore that. 2) I take comfort in the idea of not only rooting for the Rangers but also against the Cards (a longtime Cubbie rival). Finally) On Sunday night, Derek Holland even introduced the ghost of Harry Caray to a whole new generation. I'm sure that Harry did shake his big ol' noggin at that one just before he started laughing. Then he cracked open a Budweiser.
And this... tell me there's not just a little resemblance.
Go Rangers.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
It's the Small Things
I... Am... Alive.
I swear. For the tens of you keeping up with me via the interwebs, take your fingers off the 9.
Then I pondered taking up drinking full-time. I bought dinner on the fly and then wound up putting it in the fridge because I was too tired to eat. I was asleep within an hour. I am unsure how to keep up this pace.
(This really doesn't mean anything since, unlike Stephen Colbert, I don't even have a NOTICE board, but still... a warning should strike some fear.)
Today, when I went to buy an afternoon snack from the lounge vending machine, I noticed these signs under the glass on the lunch table. Subtle, yet hilarious. I took some photos before those heathens see them and surely deface them somehow.
I swear. For the tens of you keeping up with me via the interwebs, take your fingers off the 9.
I'm here. I am just mother effin' tired. In 3 days, I'm almost at 40 hours of work. That makes 2 days left to go. I left this evening around 6:45 PM just to make sure I saw the sun this week. It's been a series of work tirelessly for 4 or 5 days straight and then go comatose on the weekends. It's a go, go, go, go... CRASH/BURN cycle. And I'm so not the only one in this, so I try to keep my bitching to a minimum. The fact that people are keeping this pace and then going home to do things like cook dinner for their kids or iron their husbands' shirts flipping astounds me. I can barely change the cats' water dish. And I can rationalize them drinking from the toilet.
Every day, I feel like the pressure intensifies even more. New kids. New schedule. New responsibilities. Same ol' challenges. Oh. Annnddd... a NEW TEST. When we're still on the hot seat with the last one. The journey into the Great Unknown has begun. And, everywhere, there are constant reminders that if we aren't successful, it'll be time to re-apply for... your... own... job. I was the first teacher in yesterday at 6:45 AM and the last teacher out at 8:45 PM. Now that's not the norm, but it's also not a rarity. When I got in my car, I sat in the parking lot and sobbed for 2-3 minutes straight just to have some sort of release.
Then I pondered taking up drinking full-time. I bought dinner on the fly and then wound up putting it in the fridge because I was too tired to eat. I was asleep within an hour. I am unsure how to keep up this pace.
It's hard to have fun at work in the midst of all the tension. But, by God, we're trying. It's important to still find ways to have fun. That's what I like about my co-workers. The teachers in "A" Lunch are somehow under the impression that they are better than "B" Lunch, my lunchtime crowd. As we're all fairly competitive and unwilling to give anyone else any sort of edge, much jaw-jacking (see "talking smack") has ensued. Yesterday, when they stole all the chocolate from the Half-Price Books gift basket during A-Lunch, I put them all ON NOTICE.
(This really doesn't mean anything since, unlike Stephen Colbert, I don't even have a NOTICE board, but still... a warning should strike some fear.)
Today, when I went to buy an afternoon snack from the lounge vending machine, I noticed these signs under the glass on the lunch table. Subtle, yet hilarious. I took some photos before those heathens see them and surely deface them somehow.
 |
| Hunger Strikes, be damned. |
 |
| Pseudo Political Testimonials |
 |
| Straight shootin' |
 |
| Historical perspective |
 |
| Psychotic, former Heavyweight boxing champion testimonial |
 |
| And my personal favorite... |
I laughed until I cried. Such a better batch of tears than yesterday, so I'm thankful for that. It's the small things you have to treasure, people. It's the small things.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
One Does Not Love Breathing...
I read this awesome post, by The Bloggess today which let me know that this week is Banned Book Week. I don't know if that's for sure. I mean, it's not marked on my calendar or anything, but Jenny doesn't typically steer me wrong. (Yes, I refer her to as Jenny. She follows me on Twitter. Well... me and like 13,000 other people. It's a minor detail.)
And it did what all awesome writing does. It made me think. And reflect. And smile. And feel inspired.
Man, words are totally effing incredible sometimes.
I think I've made it clear that I love books, yes? I love them here, or there, or anywhere. So the idea of banning books makes my skin crawl. Even a book that I hate (although, off-handedly, I can't think of one of those). Maybe it's because I don't have children to shelter from the cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world. Or maybe it's because I hope that, even if I did have children, I'd own up to the fact that we all live in a cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world... and then TEACH them how to NAVIGATE it rather than fear it.
The closest I've ever been to a banned book is my elementary library. And by "elementary library", I mean the school library I used from 1st through 12th grade. (Don't forget that my first grade classroom and my Senior English classroom were only like 150 yards apart and connected by a couple of breezeways). But the library was separated into some clearly defined shelving systems. The end closest to the door and the check-out counter was for the elementary school kids. Then biographies (which were open to all). Then, in the middle of the room -- and, yes, I said "room" as in singular -- was the Holy Grail in my eyes. The Young Adult shelves. That section was both the metaphorical and literal barrier to grown-up books.
Well, truthfully, it was the barrier to the reference section, but that just doesn't have the same ring, now does it?
But my flirtations with the Young Adult Shelves doesn't begin with me. It begins with my brother, the local boundary pusher in my family. My brother is four years older than me. He is a voracious reader who imparted both the skill and love for reading to me when I was merely 5. When he was in the early stages of junior high, he decided that he'd had enough of the elementary section, waltzed over to the YA section, picked up a forbidden book, and plopped it down on Mrs. Stavenhagen's desk.
She promptly told him to put it back. And what Mrs. Stave said... you did.
I don't know if there was much of a fight put up at the time. All I know is that later that evening, my mom was presented with some pen and paper and asked to write a note declaring that she was perfectly okay with my brother checking out books from any and all categories. In truth, I think it was as much about knocking down a seemingly stupid rule (my brother absolutely detests stupidity) as it was about which book he wanted. Nevertheless, the next day, my brother crossed the threshhold. More than anything though, he blazed the path for me. For that, I will be thankful.
By the time I was in the 4th and 5th grade, Mrs. Stave would simply stand aside and watch me go, knowing full well that my brother's note from so long before served as my note as well. My goal was to read every book in that library, no matter which shelf it lived upon. I fell short, of course, but the lessons I learned within those bindings live with me still today. No other reading has affected me like the reading I did as a pre-teen/teen.
The first book that ever grabbed hold of me was "To Kill a Mockingbird". I have probably read it 20 times, and there are still moments that I have to close its cover and breathe a deep breath or throw it down in anger or hold it to my heart and weep. It made my cheeks burn with shame and put the microscope on humanity. Then it held my eye to the lens. But it wasn't just the acknowledgment of injustice and prejudice, it taught me about courage.
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
It taught me about love. It taught me that friendship knows no boundary of age or class or color. It taught me that growing up is neither graceful or delicate. And most certainly, it was not easy.
"Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad."
There it is. The lump. In my throat. Oh, God. Talk amongst yourselves.
I had probably read this book 5 times before I ever heard that someone wanted to ban it. And, honestly, I am still unsure why. Each time I re-read it, that thought, the thought of it perched on the top of a madman's bonfire, makes my stomach ache.
But there were many books that changed me, some controversial, some not. Yet their importance in shaping who I am, how I view the world, and what I believe is true and necessary has never faded. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. (I still cannot re-read this book. I wept for days. I weep still to think of it. This reason alone, I think, is why I will never teach the 8th grade.) Fahrenheit 451... Brave New World... 1984... Animal Farm... Catcher in the Rye... Where the Red Fern Grows... Bridge to Terabithia... The Outsiders... The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... Charlotte's Web... Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret... The Red Badge of Courage... The Pigman... Carrie... Flowers in the Attic... Lord of the Flies...
The list could go on forever, and I find myself -- even at the elderly age of 35 -- still adding to this list of important Young Adult literature. The Hunger Games Trilogy... Speak... The Harry Potter Series... The Book Thief (oh, how I cheered her on.)... Only now, it's the for the Young Adults in my classroom. And there's no age limit upon my little bookshelf.
So in honor of Banned Book Week, I leave you with an invitation to tell me about your own life-changing books -- controversial or otherwise, YA or otherwise -- for I'm always on the look-out for a good book... and with one last quote from the smartest narrator I've ever known, Scout Finch.
"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing." -- To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
And it did what all awesome writing does. It made me think. And reflect. And smile. And feel inspired.
Man, words are totally effing incredible sometimes.
I think I've made it clear that I love books, yes? I love them here, or there, or anywhere. So the idea of banning books makes my skin crawl. Even a book that I hate (although, off-handedly, I can't think of one of those). Maybe it's because I don't have children to shelter from the cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world. Or maybe it's because I hope that, even if I did have children, I'd own up to the fact that we all live in a cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world... and then TEACH them how to NAVIGATE it rather than fear it.
The closest I've ever been to a banned book is my elementary library. And by "elementary library", I mean the school library I used from 1st through 12th grade. (Don't forget that my first grade classroom and my Senior English classroom were only like 150 yards apart and connected by a couple of breezeways). But the library was separated into some clearly defined shelving systems. The end closest to the door and the check-out counter was for the elementary school kids. Then biographies (which were open to all). Then, in the middle of the room -- and, yes, I said "room" as in singular -- was the Holy Grail in my eyes. The Young Adult shelves. That section was both the metaphorical and literal barrier to grown-up books.
Well, truthfully, it was the barrier to the reference section, but that just doesn't have the same ring, now does it?
But my flirtations with the Young Adult Shelves doesn't begin with me. It begins with my brother, the local boundary pusher in my family. My brother is four years older than me. He is a voracious reader who imparted both the skill and love for reading to me when I was merely 5. When he was in the early stages of junior high, he decided that he'd had enough of the elementary section, waltzed over to the YA section, picked up a forbidden book, and plopped it down on Mrs. Stavenhagen's desk.
She promptly told him to put it back. And what Mrs. Stave said... you did.
I don't know if there was much of a fight put up at the time. All I know is that later that evening, my mom was presented with some pen and paper and asked to write a note declaring that she was perfectly okay with my brother checking out books from any and all categories. In truth, I think it was as much about knocking down a seemingly stupid rule (my brother absolutely detests stupidity) as it was about which book he wanted. Nevertheless, the next day, my brother crossed the threshhold. More than anything though, he blazed the path for me. For that, I will be thankful.
By the time I was in the 4th and 5th grade, Mrs. Stave would simply stand aside and watch me go, knowing full well that my brother's note from so long before served as my note as well. My goal was to read every book in that library, no matter which shelf it lived upon. I fell short, of course, but the lessons I learned within those bindings live with me still today. No other reading has affected me like the reading I did as a pre-teen/teen.
The first book that ever grabbed hold of me was "To Kill a Mockingbird". I have probably read it 20 times, and there are still moments that I have to close its cover and breathe a deep breath or throw it down in anger or hold it to my heart and weep. It made my cheeks burn with shame and put the microscope on humanity. Then it held my eye to the lens. But it wasn't just the acknowledgment of injustice and prejudice, it taught me about courage.
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
It taught me about love. It taught me that friendship knows no boundary of age or class or color. It taught me that growing up is neither graceful or delicate. And most certainly, it was not easy.
"Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad."
There it is. The lump. In my throat. Oh, God. Talk amongst yourselves.
I had probably read this book 5 times before I ever heard that someone wanted to ban it. And, honestly, I am still unsure why. Each time I re-read it, that thought, the thought of it perched on the top of a madman's bonfire, makes my stomach ache.
But there were many books that changed me, some controversial, some not. Yet their importance in shaping who I am, how I view the world, and what I believe is true and necessary has never faded. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. (I still cannot re-read this book. I wept for days. I weep still to think of it. This reason alone, I think, is why I will never teach the 8th grade.) Fahrenheit 451... Brave New World... 1984... Animal Farm... Catcher in the Rye... Where the Red Fern Grows... Bridge to Terabithia... The Outsiders... The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... Charlotte's Web... Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret... The Red Badge of Courage... The Pigman... Carrie... Flowers in the Attic... Lord of the Flies...
The list could go on forever, and I find myself -- even at the elderly age of 35 -- still adding to this list of important Young Adult literature. The Hunger Games Trilogy... Speak... The Harry Potter Series... The Book Thief (oh, how I cheered her on.)... Only now, it's the for the Young Adults in my classroom. And there's no age limit upon my little bookshelf.
So in honor of Banned Book Week, I leave you with an invitation to tell me about your own life-changing books -- controversial or otherwise, YA or otherwise -- for I'm always on the look-out for a good book... and with one last quote from the smartest narrator I've ever known, Scout Finch.
"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing." -- To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Tim Gunn, Hawaiian Jams, and Amateur Psychology
I am hopelessly addicted to Project Runway. Hopelessly.
It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail. Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work". Still, I enjoy the hell out of it. And Tim Gunn? I want him to be my gay Yoda. I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform. But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt. Ever.
The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics. Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart. I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama. I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron. Oh, that mother-effin' apron. Black and white toille with a black edging. Damn you, edging. Damn you. By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch. Seams? Patterns? That little wheelie, marking thing? I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up? POCKETS?? It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years. I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.
In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What? You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared. No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.
(This is totally my mom, by the way. Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further. *sigh*)
The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef". And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race". It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures.
Except "Hoarders". Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart. *shudder*
I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however. Maybe next week's episode.
It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail. Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work". Still, I enjoy the hell out of it. And Tim Gunn? I want him to be my gay Yoda. I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform. But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt. Ever.
The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics. Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart. I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama. I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron. Oh, that mother-effin' apron. Black and white toille with a black edging. Damn you, edging. Damn you. By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch. Seams? Patterns? That little wheelie, marking thing? I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up? POCKETS?? It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years. I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.
In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What? You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared. No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.
(This is totally my mom, by the way. Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further. *sigh*)
The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef". And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race". It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures.
Except "Hoarders". Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart. *shudder*
I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however. Maybe next week's episode.
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