tragic guns.

On my father's side of my family, guns are A Thing. My father's family is from the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, and for fun up there, the best thing to do is shoot you some Bambi. Or The Yearling. Whatever - go kill you something cute and fluffy, then drink a lot of beer. ...This may have changed since the invention of Netflix. And Netflix and Chill, which is a concept I just recently learned about. I am 85% naivete, 90% uncool, 95% old and 100% vulnerable to rabid wolves in the pack. Ought to get a gun, but I'm stubborn. I submit the following:

My great-grandfather owned a grocery store and butchered his own cows. He'd take his shotgun down to the cow pasture, pick out a good one, and BLAM. Then they'd hang it up from some ropes and butcher it. Right there in the dirt road, they'd do it. In fact, on the road to my great-uncle Calvin's farm, at the end of the little lane most of my father's family lived on, is an antique remnant of how people used to once upon a time kill cows, which is two poles in the ground, a pole across the top, from which rope would hang the cow while they butchered it. Very quaint, very 1930s.

Anyway, one day my great-grandfather took his 12-year-old son Joseph out to the cow pasture to shoot a cow for butchering to sell in the shop. While walking down the dirt road, my great-grandfather tripped and fell on his shotgun, which went off and instantly killed him. Right in front of my 12-year-old grandfather. 

There are some mumbled family rumors about how in the Sam Hill THAT happened; my great-grandfather was a seasoned, knowledgeable gun owner. Why'd he take the safety off before they got to the cows? (See where I'm going with this? Accidental suicide is where I'm going with this.) Which is horrifying, right? Why in the world would a father even do that in front of his 12-year-old boy? It didn't really seem like my great-grandfather's style. So nobody really knows; it was most likely a really big mistake, unless it wasn't. A tragic accident.

My point with this story is that guns are dangerous. Even the most very knowledgeable, seasoned gun owners can make a tragic, permanent mistake. My family has a history of tragic accidents with guns, and thus we are a testament to how very, very careful and respectful humans should be with tools they create, particularly when they create tools that are specifically designed kill other living things. Since sometimes they themselves may end up being one of the killed living things.

I was raised by a man who loved guns, who was raised by a man who loved guns, who was raised by a long line of men who loved guns. They were farmers and hunters and soldiers who used them to kill cows and deer and bring home meat for their families and sometimes killed other human beings when their government told them to. The key word here, I think, is KILL. Guns are tools, and they are tools designed and used to kill. 

Human beings, by nature, are killers. Some of us are conscientious objectors to it, and we get on Social Media and cry WHY??? WHY?!?!?! when killing happens. And yet, we still all do it, this killing business. We cut down trees to build houses and make books, and so we kill trees. You eat vegetables? Killing plants. I mean, it's just what we do. Survival of the fittest. We must eat to survive, we must have shelter. We are a smart species, we have evolved opposable thumbs and larger brains. But we are still very much cave people, in many ways; our main goal is always to survive the best. And we are not immune to the forces of Nature and other species that also want to survive. You go out in a tornado? That tornado will smack you in the brain with a large, flying object and kill you. You get in the water with Jaws? He's got big teeth he's going to use as tools to kill you. Circle of Life.

But this San Bernardino thing...Sandy Hook, Connecticut...movie theater shootings...gas station shootouts...crazy ex-husbands going after wives they abused...acts of passion...someone snaps after years of struggling with mental health and takes handfuls of other human beings down with them. The other morning I saw a local news story about a 7 year old who found her mom's boyfriend's hand gun in their sofa, picked it up to look at it, and it went off in her face, killing her instantly. The mom was interviewed on TV and was so very matter of fact about it. Guns are just in their home. It was a tragic accident. She said. Flatly.

Tragic accident. I know everyone handles grief differently, but the woman didn't even have a single trace of affect on her face; this sort of thing just happens where she's from. Just matter-of-fact: my kid was a tragic accident. Jesus Christ.

And yet. I was raised by a gun owners, so I get it, gun lovers. Yes, yes, yes. We're all going to be running to YOUR houses for protection when the Zombie Apocalypse hits. Be assured: I'll be the first one at your door, ringing your doorbell, hiding behind you as you shoot down the zombies. And also please know: there IS a part of me that would really like to go to a gun range and wear some big earphones and safety glasses and feel the sexy power of a Glock in my hands as I shoot at some paper person 50 feet away. I have girlfriends who swear that's better than having an orgasm. I mean...for real?! I can't even. And if that's the truth, then hell yeah. I think about having an orgasm with a Glock once in awhile. What warm-blooded girl wouldn't?

But you know what else I think about? I think about all the times my dad laid out his antique shotguns and pistols to clean them. And I think about how, every time he did, he described in careful detail exactly what a discharged bullet from one of them could do to a human body. And about how you never know if a gun is truly empty...you can never ever be sure, and that's why they have safety locks.

Tragic accident. 

I think about WHY my father would have these talks with my brother and me when we were children. I think about how our gun cabinet - displayed proudly and prominently in our foyer - was always locked but had a glass door on it. And I think about how, after my father died and my mom's house was robbed, that very gun cabinet's glass door was smashed in and every single shotgun in it had been taken out and carefully laid on the floor in front of the cabinet. The thieves had been considering, pondering...how to get them all out of the house? And in the end, clearly decided to leave them - maybe they were in too much of a hurry...or maybe it was just too risky to be seen walking out of a house with a bunch of long shotguns. I wish you could see, in your mind, what I am seeing in mine...the image of all of my father's guns carefully laid out on the floor, and not taken simply because there were too many. Had they been able to figure out how to do it, those guns could have been used for any purpose - robbing, maiming, killing. It was a chilling thing. They carefully laid every single shotgun out; they desperately wanted them. Just couldn't figure out how to do it quietly.

Tragic accident.

I think about WHY my father, a graduate of military college and an Army veteran of the Vietnam War, raised by Navy veterans of World War II who sat around and told lots and lots of War-Is-Hell stories to the point all my young father ever wanted was to grab a gun and go kill some enemies of the United States...I think about WHY my father would not only never teach his own son how to shoot a gun and kill a deer, but would also actively and vocally discourage him from going to war. From shooting another living thing. 

Tragic accident.

I think about the story my mother once told me about my father, who was in the throes of a very deep and gripping depression as he struggled with alcohol addiction and several bad punches Life hit him with...I think about my dad sitting on the edge of a tub with one of his pistols in his hands, pondering. And telling my mom, when she walked in on him and asked, that he'd just been cleaning it. But there was a stray bullet in the sink. 

Tragic accident.

I think about how, after my father died and my mother was cleaning out his closet, she found a pistol on the top shelf of that closet. I think about how bad it scared her just to touch it and that, later, she had the police officer husband of a friend come over to take it down. She wanted him to make absolutely sure it was unloaded before she put it in the gun cabinet. I think about how it wasn't unloaded. I think about how it had bullets in it still. And the safety was off. I think about how many times my father warned me as a child about guns that had bullets in them. And I think about how my father's father witnessed his own father die from a gunshot. And that my father hadn't bothered to put the safety on his own gun. That had bullets in it.

Tragic accident.

I don't want to take away anybody's guns. I know some people use them to go get meat for their family. I know some people use them for fun and pleasure and kinky simulated orgasms. I know some people are absolutely convinced that, every single night, there are like all these stealth ninjas with AK-47s lurking in their bushes and the only way they'll possibly be able to save themselves and their children is if they own an arsenal of guns. 

Yes, I totally get it, gun owners. And I promise, as the child of a gun owner and the granddaughter of gun owners, I WANT you to have access to guns. 

But can we agree that 7 year olds shooting themselves in the face isn't okay? Can we agree that people walking into crowded public areas and shooting at random is a bad thing? Can we agree that the answer is actually NOT to put MORE guns into the atmosphere, but maybe to be more careful about who gets them? 

(I know...I KNOW. This is where your hackles go up and you grab your NRA paraphernalia/talking points and start handing me inane little facts about people stabbing each other with knives and so maybe we should control knives better. Stop. Just stop it.) 

It's just. I just don't want anyone's mommies and daddies innocently enjoying a day at work to die just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't want that to happen anymore. And I absolutely don't want anyone's babies who are learning their ABCs and just starting to add and subtract to die. As a mother, I cannot even begin to tell you the clutches of fear and anguish this thought sends me into; I can SEE my own child in every single one of those Sandy Hook kids' faces...I can FEEL exactly what I imagine those mothers felt when they were told their little girl or boy was one of the children who didn't make it out alive. 

When I was growing up, we lived in Oklahoma and one of our neighbors in the back of us was arrested because he shot and killed another neighbor over a disagreement about which extra inch of yard belonged to whom. Did you know? Back in 1979, in Muskogee, Oklahoma, somebody once died because he dared to argue about one goddamn inch of grass. 

I'm tired of angry, vigilante assholes being given access to tools so they can play God. And I'm tired of people driving around the streets with guns in their glove compartments, flying into a momentarily psycho road rage, pulling out that gun and doing something stupidly blind and tragic with it. And I'm tired of reading news stories about drive by shootings because a lot of the children I work with deal with this, a lot, and their stories - always told in very matter-of-fact words with a very innocent and naive viewpoint on it - break my heart. And I'm just so fucking tired of guns and our passion for guns in this country. Why are we not as passionate about children living in poverty, why are we not passionate about children who go to bed or wake up with hunger? Why are we not angry and passionate about children who are homeless, living with adults who hurt them. 

But I get it. You love them, and the Constitution says you can have them. And god forbid we mess with a 226-year-old document that's been already been amended 27 times and is probably due for a few more.

A very large part of the problem is that we are a sick country. Our mental health care system is broken. Our justice system is antiquated, racist, and ineffective. We pour money into tax breaks for people who need it least and hoard help from people who need it most. We distract ourselves with dumb issues and pointlessness so we don't have to address the real heartbreaking ones. It's so easy to demand and defend your 2nd amendment right when you're not the one picking out clothes for your child to wear in a coffin.

How does it make me a terribly wrong and misguided person to want like just three more laws controlling how we distribute firearms that aren't designed to kill Bambie or The Yearling, but are absolutely designed to end human life? Why is it bad for me to say: cool, own your guns but why the hell do you need the assault rifle? Put the assault rifle back. 

Why am I the crazy one to want a few more laws that say: hey, you have to wait a little longer before you can have that semi-automatic...hey, you have to pass this mental health test before you can get that Glock...Oh, you want a gun? Well, sure but you'll need to pay gun insurance to own one, just like you pay car insurance...hey, you can have an AK-47, a Glock, and a shotgun in your house, but that's all.  Why do you need more than that? Are you building your own personal Army or something? This ain't Waco. 

I know there are gun control advocates out there who want A LOT of control. I am not one of them; I'm not saying: get rid of all the guns, America. I know there are assassin ninjas in your bushes and you're constantly being threatened by gangstas in hoodies. 

I just want babies to stop dying. And I want gun enthusiasts to acknowledge, goddammit, that if you own a gun, YES. There can be tragic accidents. Just please acknowledge they're weapons of destruction, and if you own one there can be tragic accidents. My very own gun enthusiast father did this all the time, and was almost a victim of it himself. And his grandfather certainly was. Stop acting like just because you practice at a gun range every other weekend that you're a freaking expert on guns. You are not a gun expert; you're a weekend cowboy/cowgirl. And so stop talking like you know EXACTLY what you'd do if a crazed gun man started shooting up the restaurant you're eating at; be real with yourself. Because you have no IDEA what you'll do, exactly, how you'll act until you actually go through one of those situations and god forbid you ever are in a situation where you have to go through something like that. Trained, skilled police officers will tell you they have to LEARN how to control themselves in those highly charged situations, and it is very hard. Stop acting like you think you're Dirty Harry and get real: owning guns makes you feel safer and more in control of a world you're actually quite afraid of, and admit they also maybe make you feel very bad ass. And please acknowledge that you probably have an issue that you might need to address if you keep needing to buy more guns, that two or three just don't seem to be quite enough for you. Even though you aren't a cop, a soldier, or a hired assassin. 

Guns are tragic. People are crazy. People love crazy, tragic things. We crave dangerous romance. 

Which is why the FDA regulates our foods and drugs. And our money is regulated. And how we build roads. And how many safety features our cars have; and now we have laws making us wear seatbelts, or fine us for texting or put us in jail for drinking while driving. And there are building codes so our houses don't topple down and crush us. And we pay good money to make sure we have police protection in case our guns don't stop the ninjas in our bushes, and for firefighters in case the bush ninjas set our homes ablaze. And I know all those regulations really chap some of your asses, especially those of you who love guns, because they're all examples of TOO MUCH GOVERNMENT. (And I also think you're totally missing the point while enjoying a longer and more comfortable life than people had in the Wild West you so romanticize.)

I just don't get why asking for some extra regulations on tools specifically designed to end life makes ME the crazy one. Jesus God, I only own knives and numb chucks.

summer song hunting.

Someone I know from Twitter posted this. It spoke to me, so
now it's speaking to you.

It's been brought to my attention my Spotify link doesn't work for everyone. Well, crap. Spotify isn't for everyone, that's for sure. So, if you are very very interested, here are some good tunes I think you need to download into your own player of whatever kind you have. Let's sync up! And listen to nice music. All Summer long.

Love Will Keep Us Together

Margaritaville

I'm Not in Love 

Summer Breeze

Got to Get You Into my Life

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Stayin' Alive

Boogie Wonderland

What You Won't Do For Love

Down in Mexico 

Hey You & Another Brick in the Wall 

(those two songs go together; you HAVE to listen to them...together)

Stir It Up 

(if this & Margaritaville doesn't sound like summer, I don't know what does)

A Change is Gonna Come

Come With Me Now

15 Minutes 

(from LOVE THE HARD WAY, a good movie by the way)

Walk Away Renee

Got to Be Real

Take Me to Church

Hot Stuff

My Sharona

When I'm 64

Moonlight Feels Right 

(live! at Chastain Park in Atlanta, GA!)

Summertime--

(one by Billy Stewart and one by the great, incomparable Billie Holiday)

Fool's Paradise

Love You Like a Love Song

Concrete Jungle

Le Freak

Uptown Funk 

(there's an amazingly funk-tastic Harry Potter version of this for you Potterheads, but I don't know if it's on any downloadable places.)

Suddenly Last Summer

I have others, but that's a sample. And you know what I've left off? My beloved Barry Manilow. Here--go add this and this to your summer songs list; I will. 

So I've been apartment hunting. It is daunting, looking at and for apartments. The first one I was super jazzed about--washer/dryer included?! Hells yeah! But then I walked into the actual apartment and--it was very nice and very clean. Lovely wooded view, nice big deck. But the rooms are teeny tiny. I am not used to teeny tiny. 

The problem with apartments is this: you can get a lot of square space footage. But you're going to have to pay. They gave teachers a big raise for next year (it's about time--I've had my pay frozen at 2008 levels since, oh...2008), so I have some more wiggle room, financially, but I will still need to be able to eat and buy gas for driving to work. ...and travel to Spain for flamenco and Italy for wine. And I can't do those things if I'm apartment poor. So I've been spending some reflective time asking myself things like: what can I live with? What can I live without? Can I live with a teeny tiny bedroom that I'm squeezed into, less closet space? But super nice big deck? There's a give-take aspect to this I didn't consider, is what I'm trying to communicate. I knew living in an apartment would be down-sizing, which I wanted; I just didn't really grasp what down-sizing would actually look and feel like.

Also, you know what else I learned about apartment hunting? Be careful where you go hunting. Here's a tip, renter kids: if you get the application back, and they demand proof that your salary is 3x what the rent is...and the way they want you to prove this is handing over not just 3 months' of pay stubs, but also: a 1099 income tax form, 2 years' of prior income taxes, faxed verification of employment from your company, 3 months of bank statements showing deposit amounts, 2 valid forms of ID one of which should be a Social Security card, valid rental history from previous homes, AND they want you to fill out a criminal background check (I'm actually NOT making this up--I just copied, verbatim, from the paper in front of me)? Run!! RUN!!! Fly like the wind. 

Besides the fact just thinking about trying to gather all of those items exhausts the sheer crap out of me, I absolutely don't care HOW nice it looks (this place looked super nice--seriously super nice, I really wanted to give them the deposit/application fee right then and there). NO. Run, run, run as fast as you can. So glad I took all of that back home with me and looked through it before I committed. I'm not living anywhere that people need to provide proof they aren't crackheads, because the apartment complex's desire to have proof the renters aren't crackheads immediately tells me they've rented to a lot of crackheads in the past. Nope. Nein. Nyet. No.

At any rate. I could also be just having a lot of emotions about it, which is why I'm sad in my heart. The grey, low barometric pressure day outside isn't helping. But mostly: my heart is just very very sad. This is simply not working, my marriage. But it's causing me to leave my lovely house. My quiet (when Miss M is gone or asleep), peaceful, lovely house. That I've lived in for almost 14 years, minus a 7 month separation stint back in 2007. More than that, this is the only home Miss M has ever known. And I'm taking her out of it to put her in a teeny tiny home. And right now she deeply misses her daddy (he's on a fishing trip), and she is quietly stealing my phone to leave him "I miss you SO much!" voice mails or texts that make my heart break, because I am aware (as she isn't) what's about to happen. This is going to be very hard for her. 

So I've been asking myself a lot of "Can I live with...?" and "Could I do without...?" questions, but also presenting a lot of scenarios to myself. Scenarios like: well, what if we HAD to down size to a teeny tiny place anyway, due to forces beyond my control? What if something very horrible happened to either me or C? This happens to many children--a mommy or a daddy is gone, forever; Miss M would be okay eventually, right? Divorce and separation are equal to death, but so much easier because the other parent is still around--we will live right around the corner, there will be equal, shared custody, Miss M will see her daddy all the time, whenever she wants. Some children in the world are spending 3/4 of their childhoods in bomb shelters, or running from crazed terrorists with machetes. My child is loved beyond words...she just has to be loved in two different homes now.

I think because it helps to remind myself that (a) other people go through this, and (b) sometimes stuff happens that you can't control and then you have no say so over what you have to do, you just...DO it. So when you're in a situation that is bad, but is also contained by factors within your control, you will survive it. You will be okay. We will be okay.

Because human beings are surivors; we've been doing it since the dawn of time, under far worse conditions. I'm reminding myself of my great fortune in being able to take my time in my decision-making, that I am separating from a really very GOOD human being who is mature and loving, that I have two college degrees and a wealth of life experience to fall back on, that I am surrounded by friends and family who are wrapping me in love and care. Not everyone has this. And this is a blessing. 

So. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to put in some ear buds and head to my favorite nature trail. I'm going to take a long hike through the woods on this dreary, grey day. Because Nature is good for that. And grey, dreary days are better when surrounded by chipmunks and squirrels and quiet spiders spinning webs in between green leaves of trees. Mother Nature is soul balm. 

Here's another tune you can add to your summer listening list.

My sweet friend Patresa Hartman is on Youtube & Spotify too. Go 

download her amazing songs. They're good for summer nights.

wine & cupcakes: what the hell do i know.

So. I'm having some blogger block issues, and starting to google things like "what to blog about" and "blog topics." And I'm seriously mulling over accepting ideas from mommy bloggers. There are a lot of them. Things like: The One Movie Out Right Now I Absolutely MUST See (what if there are 25 of them?) and My Favorite Thanksgiving Recipes (what if your favorite Thanksgiving recipes come from the deli section of the local supermarket?) and A Guide to Your Hometown (what if you'd like to move out of your hometown?) The Worst Birthday You Ever Had--but be funny! (but what if it still makes you weep?) (Seriously, mine was my 16th birthday and it still makes me weep...I don't remember exactly what happened. Just sitting on my bed, weeping, going: This is my saddest birthday. EVER. And promising myself to never forget that it was my saddest birthday ever, and I haven't forgotten. I've just forgotten WHY it was the saddest).

At any rate: Mommy blogging--I'm cringing here. I don't want to invoke the wrath of any mommy bloggers or anything, because they certainly have a niche and mad props/respect to that. Also god knows, I get some of my best recipe and DIY ideas on Pinterest from them.  And some of them are seriously stupendously amusing and funny--ought to be touring the country, doing stand up, not wiping boogers and butts. And yet. I don't want to be in their ranks. I just don't. I'm sorry, but I don't. 

If it helps any, please know I feel the same about trashy beach romance writing. I was in the public library yesterday checking out books for Miss M and me, and I considered checking out one or two trashy romances, just so I could read and analyze; I hear it can make one quite a lucrative living, if done right. But then I just couldn't. I couldn't! I checked out An Untamed State by Roxane Gay instead; it's more the kind of thing I'd want to write. And sure enough, I was uncomfortable and awed by page 3 and in tears by page 6.  My god, what a story (my god, what a writer).

So mommy blogging and trashy romance novels: I enjoy both from time to time, but it's not my schtick.

(The ironic hypocrisy here is that I started this blog under the guise of a writing blog. A writer writing about writing. And now I only write about writing once in awhile, and about everything else the rest of the time. ........I suspect this is because my blogging is mirroring my writer's life in that it is unfocused, unscheduled, haphazard, and full of distractions like having to attend to the demanding needs of a 6 year old and work a full-time, draining job that involves a lot of having to attend to the demanding needs of a lot of 7-8 year olds. But I digress.)

I do realize I write about my kid now and then, and I do so because she's a humongous part of who I am and my life...but do know: I'm really, really fighting it,  becoming a mommy blogger. My name is Amy. And I am a writer and a teacher and a mom and a woman. Who likes wine and books and cupcakes and naps and indie films and indie books and too much chocolate and traveling and beaches and long hikes and lakes and mermaids and words and telling stories and listening to other people's stories. Being someone's mother really is only 1/10 of who I am. And I'm okay with typing this out loud--partly because I've had 3 glasses of this fabulous Carmenere wine** I found and partly because I think it's really important for women not to become too tied up with other people's ideas of what their identity should be. We are told from an early age "how" little girls should be (and little boys are told "how" they should be...sugar and spice and everything nice etc and so forth) and when I became a mother to a little girl, it became poignantly important to me not to confine her, to set an example for her as to "how" girls should be. And that "how" literally has no definition, ladies. There should be no HOW. For us. You like sports? Go for it. You like pretty pretty princesses? That's all you. You want to wear a tiara while you get your Tai Kwan Do black belt? Go you, girlfriend!

(And by the way, are you asking yourself yet: Hey Amy, what's up with the weekday posts? I thought you only did these on the weekends? Yes, well. I'm on Thanksgiving Break is why, and so I have more energy for writing. Or just drinking a lot of wine. Whatever.)

I am drawn to women. I am drawn to their stories, and what makes women tick in this man-centric world. I am drawn to girls. I am drawn to their stories, and what makes them tick in this boy-centric society. I am drawn to children and animals and the elderly and the mentally ill and the poor, and issues of powerlessness surrounding those groups. I am drawn to social justice, and issues of Race in America. (Why in the world did an innocent young man get gunned down with twelve--TWELVE--bullets, with two policemen standing over his body in the street afterward, doing nothing? When he didn't even have a gun? How does that happen? Knowing all we know in the 21st century, looking back on all the history we have to look back on, how the hell does something like this happen? Every day? All over the place?) How and why do rapists go free? Why do people defend and justify them? Why do people defend and justify racism? Sexism? Why? Why? 

But then. i'm also drawn to cupcakes. And Pinot Noir and Carmenere and a good Riesling, so what the hell do I know? And I'm writing a story about a ghost pirate and a girl who falls in love with him. What the hell do I know. I am not a good person to question why. Most days, at least.

Roxane Gay seems far more knowledgeable about the Why's--you should read her stuff. And go find some mommy blogs! They have some recipes for holiday sangrias that look like they will rock your world. They certainly may rock mine, should I be able to gather myself together and make them.

Okay, done. The end. I think this was totally short and sweet and to the point. Which was that there really was no point. Remember? I'm struggling to write (every day! something...every day), googling things to blog about, so this is what you got. Go make some sangria and figure out how to fix racism in America. Or come up with a kick ass cupcake flavor. Or better yet, help me find a job. (Preferably telling stories. For at least $50K a year, which I don't find too ridiculous as an asking price at all.)

(End Note/Heads Up: I'm considering moving this blog to Wordpress. The reason is going to sound so shallow, and I'm so sorry if you're attached to it now or anything but: holy emojis, I can't take the blinking holiday emojis anymore. Every time I log on here, there they are--the effing holiday emojis. From Halloween still! I mean, you'd think we'd at least get some turkeys or a Santa and elves or something.  But no. No! Still pumpkins and Frankensteins. Can. Not. Take. The blinking emojis anymore. I can X out of them, but it annoys me nonetheless.) (It may take me awhile to switch over though...I'm re-working/updating my resume/s while on break. Seriously, I'm not kidding: does anyone want to hire a shallow sommelier social justice angst-y wannabe? I just need about $50K a year plus healthcare benefits. And 6 weeks of vacation. Sick days not included. Oh, and it has to be in Atlanta. I'd love to be your angst-y social justice empowering sommelier in California wine country, but for personal reasons I can't leave Georgia.)

**I'm not tech savvy enough to know if there's a time stamp to each of my blog posts, but if there is then you're probably going: Amy! You posted this at 6:30 AM! Are you drinking already?! Well, no. Not that I couldn't drink wine at 6:30 AM...if you have to wait until a certain time to drink wine, I've heard that makes you a light weight. But I was not drinking wine at 6:30 AM when I posted this. I wrote this at 11:00 PM the night before, and then uploaded it the following morning. 

Because, okay fine. Fine! I actually am a light weight wine enthusiast.

international stories in spanish

I had a long week, Internet. Three whole mornings of testing, and then today was stupendously bad (on the student behavior front). Half the class of wayward children got put in study hall all of their recess, while being reprimanded to think about appropriate school choices vs. inappropriate. I hate being mean. I want to dance and sing and throw glitter around and have FUN! But I have to have an agreement from my small charges that they'll bring it back to center once the glitter is on the ground so we can also do the stupid grunt work society is currently expecting us to do. And I hate taking away recess--in public school it's really their only time during the day to just be kids and do the work children are truly meant to do which is learn how to grow up successfully; nobody ever fared well from having their creativity and sense of playfulness smashed down. I think Orwell's 1984 was really about people who get drilled like little machines with curriculum content.

Fortunately, it did end on two happy notes:

1-Coworkers who are ridiculous. I'm so happy I work with ridiculous people who recognize this is all so ridiculous. Their sense of humor is sarcastic and sardonic, if it's possible to be that at once. Since those are synonyms.

2a-A parent-teacher conference in which the mom told me I'm really awesome at speaking Spanish. And we had a (in Spanish) conversation about how I can speak Spanish pretty fluently, but can't understand jack, and she can understand English pretty fluently but can't speak jack. And that's jacked up. (I have no idea how to say that in Spanish, so I'll just throw this lovely tidbit out there for you: mierda. Yeah. I said it. Google it.

2b-Also, we had a long conversation (in Spanish) about my last name and The Bible. She likes that her child was put in my class because my name is so biblical and by the way, do I read The Bible? I told her I have read The Bible, but it's not a book I read every day. To which she said I should read it every day and invited me to their church. To which I said thank you, but we have a church we're pretty happy with right now. (It's called Our Lady of St. Sleeping In on Sundays.) (But I always appreciate the effort to save my soul.)

Here's why I learned Spanish: when I was 13, I had a crush on Menudo, the Puerto Rican boy band. Specifically, I had a crush on Charlie Rivera Masso from Menudo. Ricky "Livin' la Vida Loca" Martin was a member for a time (I did have a big crush on Ricky "Copa de la Vida" Martin for awhile, but only after he manned up and before he came out of the closet--when I liked Menudo, Ricky & I were the same age, and I did NOT want a 13 year old boy. I was desperate for Charlie, who was 16 and could DRIVE. Because 16 is almost a full grown man and also and more importantly he could DRIVE. And I had a little picture I cut out of Charlie from Tiger Beat magazine in which he and his Menudo bandmates were in a Cadillac with the top down, and Charlie was behind the wheel, and he was LOVE. I would stare at this picture for hours on end, sighing big sighs, and begging God to convince Charlie to drive the Cadillac to me and take me on a date to the movies. All I wanted was a date to the movies. With a swarthy older boy from Puerto Rico.) (Nothing's changed.)

So, of course I was going to marry Charlie Rivera and move to Puerto Rico, and I'd need to know Spanish. So when I started high school a year later, I no longer cared about Menudo at all because I'd moved on to man band Norwegian pop sensation a-ha. (I wasn't shallow or fickle at ALL as a teenager, no not at all.) (Nothing's changed there, either.) But I remembered how much I'd really wanted to know what Menudo had been saying in the straight-to-VHS feature film Una Aventura Llamada Menudo.

He's not driving, but he's wearing yellow, and STILL looking at me with Come Hither eyes...28 years later. 

Four years of high school Spanish, 2 years of college + 1 minor in Spanish on my Bachelor's degree, and 3 years of teaching on the Mexico/Arizona border? I am totally able to have Google Translate do all my note translating needs, and I conduct my own parent-teacher conferences that, were you a fluent Spanish speaker listening in, would sound something like this to you (please read my parts in a heavy Russian accent):

PARENT: Is my child doing well in your classroom?

ME: Yes. For most part. At times, he to do much talking very very loud. But yes. For most part.

PARENT: How does he behave for you?

ME: Ah, yes. He do good behavior almost always. At times, too much play, but always such a good, good boy. Is good I have your boy is with me. 

Something like that. Is what I imagine I must sound like in translation.

I've tried to watch telenovelas on Univision and Telemundo to get better at comprehension and increase my vocabulary, but quite frankly? They're ridiculous, these telenovelas. They're mini-novels on tv is what they are, and they have a perfect story arc with a beginning, middle, and ending so you'd think they'd be right up my alley. But nobody dresses like this in reality, nobody just...happens to have a gun in her purse for no reason except to shoot the lover who's been found to be sleeping with her neighbor who's actually her long lost cousin who's really her sister but she doesn't know it yet. And nobody could survive a gun shot to the head and an 18 story fall out of a skyscraper. I'm sorry, this wouldn't happen, and I have a hard time with it. In spite of the ham acting, which I normally do love. No puedo hacerlo, telenovelas. Lo siento mucho. Yo no puedo.

So I was thinking on the drive to work today that maybe what I should do is find somewhere this summer to immerse myself in Spanish for 2-3 weeks. At first, I thought: somewhere in the Mexican Riviera, but then I remember when my family and I went to Cancun when I was in college, everybody in Cancun spoke English. Such a let down, but more for my dad than me (I'm about to tell you a side story. Get some popcorn. Ready?):

When we got off the plane in Cancun, we were attacked by taxi drivers, desperate to take us to town. They were all speaking English, but my dad wasn't buying it. My dad, who spent the entirety of the plane ride to Mexico turning around to my brother and me seated behind him to say really awesome things like: "When we get there, the first thing I'm going to say is: DONDAY ESTAY EL BAAAANO, SEEENYORAYS." Because that's not gringo at all--totally sophisticated world-wide traveler.

Before we'd left home, my father informed me that since I'd had 4 years of Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and 1 whole college-level Spanish Literature class under my belt, I was to be the family's sole means of communicating to the good people of Mexico, and that all of our needs and safety concerns would be resting on my shoulders, our family's well-being would be in my hands, my absolute responsibility, so don't chingado it up. So we're all in the Cancun airport, hot and tired and thirsty and dusty and confused and a long way from an American consulate, being attacked by taxi drivers begging us to pick them! pick them! for a ride to our hotel. In English, they're begging us. They're walking up to my dad, palms out, frantically pointing to their taxi and saying things like, "Senor, I take you to the hotel? You pay $10." In total, complete English, but my dad was convinced it was Spanish because this was Mexico dammit, and look them--they're from Mexico and this is a land of all Spanish. So when I tried to explain to him that these taxi drivers were all speaking English and just needed an English Yes or No from him (or gringo Spanish Yes/No with a bathroom request or whatever), my dad freaked his freak and I ended up translating English to English that day and every day we were in Cancun.

Not a single moment of Spanish. We went to McDonald's for lunch one day, and the cashier asked, "Do you want cheese on that Quarter Pounder?" in American accent English, clear as sunshine, and my dad looked at me with that expectant look of Well, GO ON, so I sighed and said to him in American accent English: "She wants to know if you want cheese on your burger." And he smiled all knowingly and went, "Ah. I understand now. Tell her I said, SI. Yes. I would like CHEESE ON MY BURGER." Because when you yell at people who don't speak your language they can magically understand you. And then I sighed, turned back to the cashier and said, "Yes please. Cheese."

I did that, in between running interference for my mom, who would go to restaurants and say things like: THIS ISN'T MEXICAN WATER, IS IT? I CAN'T DRINK MEXICAN WATER. While my brother and I looked around nervously for banditos who might want to kill some ugly Americans that day.

Oh, and neither one of them could pronounce the hotel, which was called Las Palmeras, my father being the worst offender. Every time they directed a taxi driver to it, it was Los Palaramas. Or El Palama. Or Las Palaciamos. Somehow the drivers always knew where they meant and managed to get us to the correct place. Though I wonder how many of them said things like mierda under their breath and seriously considered how much trouble it would be to sell us all into slavery or something.  (Amy's tip of the Day: Don't travel internationally with your mom and dad, kids.) (That's for American kids only; European kids, you live with international borders and so I'm assuming you know how to comport yourselves when abroad from the age of zygote. We don't have that here--this country is too large, and the one above us sounds too much like us when they speak English. And the one below us is our big whipping boy, our scapegoat. So it's not going well.)

Speaking of international travel, did you know Scotland almost left the United Kingdom?! They voted and decided not to after all, but not before severely damaging some deep trust that I'm sure will take years of expensive talk therapy to fix and upsetting the children. I'm so surprised Queen Elizabeth didn't send Prince Harry and the RAF up there to rough them up a bit, let them know who's still in charge. King Edward I would have.

Still: thank you, Scotland! Thank you. I hope Texas was watching and maybe got some good ideas. Maybe Rick Perry is hatching some plans right now. I think Kansas would love to mediate those proceedings. I'll help Texas move. (I'm sorry, Texas. I'm just picking on you. I'd suggest Florida leave too, except they have all the nice beaches. You have Austin. The End.)

One last (non-international) thing before I go: if you have a moment this weekend or week, would you please send prayers, light, and/or love to a little girl in Georgia? She has terminal cancer, and her family is spending as much time with her as they can now, creating as many memories as they can fit in over the next few months; they've exhausted all their options and they're choosing love and hospice now as the final part of their fight. She's a cute little girl with a beautiful heart who's been karate chopping cancer since Kindergarten. I'm a firm believer in the power of thought and light altering the very make up of ourselves and our existence here, so if you could send some light & love and good vibes to sweet Lizzie and some really strong love for strength and courage to her mom and dad, that'd be so swell of you. And, if you're so inclined, you can help Lizzie's family enjoy the last sweet moments they have together. CLICK HERE to do that.

You can do it in Spanish with a Scottish accent if you'd like.

fairs are smorgasmords.

What a wild week I had, dear Internet. And two amazing weekends in a row! People are just lovely. Sometimes I meet other humans and go: Man, Sartre was right. Hell IS other people. But more often than not, I meet them and go: I'm so damn lucky I get to be a human being, this is FABULOUS. Last weekend and this weekend were examples of moments I thought the latter.

So the week was wild--lots of lows, lots of highs. Good news/bad news stuff. I finished on a high. I finished on such a high, I think I may have slightly damaged my bad left foot (the one I broke a year and a half ago) from jumping up and down. No, seriously. I was jumping up and down, literally, from joy. THAT kind of high. Ask and ye shall receive, dear friends--the Universe just needs time to dot the i's and cross the t's, is all. Because I think It likes to make sure what It does works out for everyone affected by the decision.

So that was my extreme high of the week.

Then, Friday. After school. I stayed late (of course) to get ready for Monday's tests stuff. I had a 200 foot pile of work I need to grade and enter in my grade book and also parent-teacher conference stuff I need to work on; I intended to do all of it yesterday afternoon and evening. ...and then I left it all sitting on my work table. At work. In my classroom. At work. Doors locked for the weekend.

I cried. I sat in my car, in the parking lot of my daughter's after school care place, when I realized what I'd done. All that work I need to have done by THIS Thursday morning at the latest, and how in the world would I have time Monday through Wednesday to do it all. I cried and cried and then remembered what Rob Bell told me last weekend: BREATHE, Amy. Breathe. There's a reason it's sitting in your classroom; you'll figure it out. The definition of overwhelmed is not believing you can handle whatever it is you're facing. And you can handle this little blip, easy peasy lemon squeezy as Miss M would say. So....breathe.

And after I did that, I decided to have fun. That's what the Universe clearly intended for me to do: go have fun. And so I did--I took Miss M to the County Fair.

Have you ever seen the 1973 animated version of Charlotte's Web? The one in which Debbie Reynolds is the voice of Charlotte? Oh, how I dearly love this classic movie of one of my favorite stories of all time. Walking through this County Fair this weekend, all I could think of was Templeton the Rat in this movie, singing this song about fairs being a paradise:

That's the song that kept running through my head. Because there were strangely dressed people there. And I got hustled out of $20 for a $5 (and if they bought it at Dollar Tree, it was $1) stuffed wolf. And how did they manage to do it to me? Because I am shallow, Internet. I am shallow and have low self-esteem, and my inner princess needs to be told over and over again how she's the fairest in the land. And on top of that, I am naive. I am naive and too trusting, and I believe people when they tell me things. And so when a man with an overly large mole on his forehead who looked like he hasn't had a bath since 1985 pulled me over to his game booth and told me because I was the hottest girl he'd seen all afternoon? And that he wanted to give me a free stuffed animal? I was all: Oh! Okay! And then he told me he's working carnival game booths so he doesn't have to hustle the streets, so if my beautiful self could help him out, he wanted to give me a stuffed animal for my beautiful little girl. And damn! I was FINE. HOT! (Because I actually was: with humidity, it was exactly 18,000 degrees yesterday.)

$20 later, he was STILL hustling me for more--he tried to get $30 out of me for one of the big stuffed animals he probably swiped out of Wal*Mart's dumpsters. So there you go, makers of American Hustle. There's your American Hustler, right there. He's got a big ass mole on his forehead and his fellow hustler runs side interference by complimenting you on your smile and white teeth and they both hustle at the local county fairs down south. Frickin' carnie workers. Honestly.

Yet, the people were so lovely (not the hustlers). We ran into so many kind, sweet people yesterday. Some need some serious help in fashion sense; what's appropriate for public outings and what's not, but really who cares? It's what's inside that really counts. And as we sat in the air conditioned exhibit hall for a bit, an ancient man who's probably worked the county fair since the late 1920s brought us a bottle of water, because he didn't want us to overheat, and he complimented my girl on taking good care of her mommy. Then we walked around the exhibit hall, and I marveled at what it is to be from the rural American South: there were the 4H prizes for biggest squash and best artwork, etc...and also booths of people who still cling to the Confederacy, as if it was even a good idea to begin with, and think you should agree with them. There were scary people promoting Open Carry guns and helping kids learn to shoot their fellow human beings. There were Jehovah's Witnesses hawking pamphlets about why birthday parties AREN'T OKAY. And then there are the Republican Tea Partiers, who were a bitter-looking lot with scary stickers foretelling of impending doom which you could plaster all over your car's bumper so you could become as shriveled inside as they were, and perhaps take other drivers and hopefully the rest of your family with you...SCORE!) (I bet these are the SAME scofflaws who don't wait in the traffic line like all the other humans, because they think they're far more important and so they try to skirt around the jam by driving on the side of the road, causing all kinds of traffic and road rage mayhem amongst the other drivers). 

Oh, and the very sweet but slightly insane old man who attempted to wash my 5 year old in the blood of Jesus ("We're good on Jesus blood here, thanks," I told him. But I did accept a New Testament Bible to pacify him. I left it on a food table near the stuffed animal hustler's booth, in the hopes some Jesus blood will cure him of his pimp-like tendencies.)

So, other than the game booth hustler, the bitter Tea Partiers, the slightly frightening old man who wanted to talk about blood baths, and the strange people who exist somewhere pre-Civil War 1800s? Lovely, lovely people. Very kind. And (of course) my daughter made two new best friends in the kiddie ride section. We have no idea how to contact them, but their parents were sweet and lovely, too. One of the new BFFs (who we'll call "Song," because she was named after one) complimented M on her dominant personality. And, while M and Song rode a race car ride, I confided to Song's mom that I do worry sometimes my little one is a bit too pushy and domineering with the other children of the world. And then Song's mom and I talked about how some people could view it as "bossy" and a know-it-all, which are bad...or we could look at it as being assertive and confident, which are good. And we talked about how hard it is to raise girls in a world that discourages them from being assertive and confident, and how she and I ourselves struggle with being assertive and confident, because the world was so successful in stifling that in us. But at the same time we don't want to raise rude children, and we also want to create empathy in our sweet girls' hearts. I should have gotten her phone number so we could continue the conversation, but she was grimy and sweaty and eager to go, and I didn't want to overwhelm her. They're from our area, so we may run into them again (fingers crossed).

Such lovely people. 

While talking to Song's mom, she also revealed that she's always thought about going back to school to become a teacher. She asked me how I liked it. And I got to ask my question that I've decided to ask anyone who expresses an interest in teaching nowadays: Why? Why do you want to be a teacher?

Because if the answer is: I love to teach people; I love to show people how to do things and help them learn. Then I say: have at it. Go to school, get your teaching degree, and go forth and be awesome. High five for YOU, teacher wannabe! 

But if the answer is (like mine was when I declared a teaching major in 1993): Because I love kids, and I want to help them, then I say: run. Run, run, RUN! There are million ways to help children; teaching is quickly becoming a profession that is no longer one of these ways. Not with the way it currently is, and it's certainly not helping American poor kids at all. (This was the answer Song's mother got, and I also apologized profusely to her as I gave it, and encouraged her to please ignore this disgruntled old foot soldier from the trenches...if this was truly her dream. To which she said it was not truly her dream, just something she'd been thinking about so she could be on her daughter's schedule. To which I said: try daycare.) (This bit of the conversation was another reason I was reluctant to ask for a phone number.)

At any rate, I was thinking last night (after I'd showered 100 layers of sweat and grime and dirt off of me): I do write (on my writer's blog) an awful lot about kids and teaching, don't I? So clearly, kids are very important to me. And clearly I'm very passionate about teaching still, in spite of itself. 

I don't know what to do with that information at the moment. I'm just putting it out there because it occurred to me. And so I'm letting it occur to you. And I'm going to announce here to you, that I intend to marinate in it, and consider it, and wonder about it for a bit and maybe ask the Universe if It could direct me to where It would like me to go with this news. 

May your week have zero game booth hustlers, not one single bitter political dogmatic hack, and may people who want you to take baths in blood give you a wide berth...my wish for you is for you to only interact with lovely, thoughtful people who have interesting conversations with you and bring you water on hot, thirsty days. And may there be at least one moment where you over-extend some foot tendons from a tad too much jumping for joy.