wine whine.

We had an ice cream social at work today. I did not attend. Not feeling like ice cream. Not feeling like socializing. Because I've come to a firm conclusion: (a) I love these kids, (b) it is not in my make up to not give any job I do 110%...when I realize I can't give a job 110%, I back out (why I left writing for threeifbyspace.net), (c) but I don't have to give any effed up work PLACE (or system) one extra single bit of my time or soul. The. End.

Once, I took this professional development seminar about dialogue journaling. My daughter and I do this now - I'll write a note to her, she writes back to me, I respond to her response, she responds to mine, etc and so forth forever and infinity. You learn a lot about people this way, by exchanging written notes. Writing is kind of freeing like that. I think because...well, the other person can't interrupt. You get to say your WHOLE piece, all the stuff in your brain, and THEN they can respond. I don't know about you, but when I'm talking to someone, one of two things happen: they interrupt me to tell me their thought(s) while I'm still in the middle of giving mine, or (2) I get nervous I'm not making sense and I completely trail off and stop. 

Oh, wait! Before I get into my major wine whine, can I tell you a really powerful story about what writing can do? Two years ago, my hardest little gangsta girl completely exposed her raw and tender soul to another classmate via dialogue journaling. I read a whole exchange that went like this (fyi: I fixed the crazy 2nd grade spelling and grammar so you could decipher it):

Gangsta Girl: I don't believe in Santa Claus.

2nd Grade Girl: I believe in Santa Claus. Why don't you believe in Santa Claus?

GG: He ain't never leave me no presents.

2nd Grade Girl: Well, I will give you presents.

GG: Why?

2nd Grade Girl: Because I like you.

GG: I like you too.

2nd Grade Girl: I'm glad we're friends.

GG: You're my very best friend in the whole school, 2nd Grade Girl and I was just kidding I believe in Santa Claus too.

See? Writing heals. I'm pretty sure if someone would just dialogue journal with Putin and those crazy ayatollahs in Iran and Donald Trump and all the right wing political hacks on the whole entire planet plus all the fundamentalist religious crazies, the world simply wouldn't be as scary. Writing is power.

Oh, wait! Can I tell you one more story about how writing causes connection? The lady I was sitting next to in the dialogue journaling class, the person I had to dialogue journal with, shared via writing that her dad had just died. So I wrote back that my dad had died XX number of years ago; that I knew it's a hard thing to go through, saying good-bye to a mom or a dad no matter how old you are. 

And for about 10 minutes we just sat and wrote, telling our stories. I learned her dad had had Alzheimer's, and that she nursed him at home til the very end when she had to cry "Uncle!" and just take him to hospice. I learned she still felt tremendous guilt over the items her stressed out, frantic brain threw into the suitcase as she packed him up for hospice. And I learned that when she got to him there and was unpacking all of these crazy things, she sat down on the floor of his room and just cried. Because she realized: Oh. Oh. Why did I even bring any of this. He's not going to come home. 

On the break, I talked to her about it. She sat and sobbed; it was that fresh. And I sat and sobbed with her; it was that sad. I just patted her back, and expressed empathy. Losing people who were sources of strength and wisdom to horribly debilitating things is quite possibly one of the hardest roads to walk as a human being. Simply because you have no power to fix it, and it's not your fight to fight. 

At any rate, at some point between the sobbing and the consoling, I let her know my husband and I were really struggling (this was just the beginning of the beginning of the end, when we were at the start line and realizing: this ain't workin', somethin' done got broke). She told me she had also divorced several years ago, and asked if I thought my job had anything to do with it.

Funnily enough, about a week prior to this class, C and I did have a (slightly heated in which I was incredibly over-defensive because I was so stressed out, even then) discussion about the stresses of my job, and how I bring them home. Teaching is a hard job to leave behind you. You can't necessarily just shut the door and pretend there's not a mountain of paperwork you need to see to still, or that parent-teacher conference prep time looms, or that that one ass crazy parent is continuing to make your life hellacious, or that one kid is just...I mean, jesus god. What the freaking hell is WRONG with that one kid?? And I know y'all already know how I feel about those jacked up data worshipers. 

She told me there's research out there that says teachers have about a 12-15% divorce rate, which is fairly high-ish. Not the highest, but high-ish. It's the paperwork demands, the stresses of the job, the longer-than-expected work hours, and the fact that teachers - particularly elementary level teachers, in which there's a ginormous percentage of women, because little kids I guess - spend a large portion of their year, their time, and their lives devoted to other people's children while their own only get what's left of them at the end of the day. And these days, that's not a whole hella lot, I gotta say. Didn't make me feel better, but it sort of explained a tiny fraction of why I was where I was. I will say to you right now that teaching/public education is responsible for...what's smaller than 1/4? 1/3? .05/100% ? something like that...of why my marriage ended. (FYI: I don't care if that last fraction freaked you out. I am not opposed to combining Mathematical concepts, just as I remain unopposed to combining races and religions, cultures and curious juxtapositions of punctuation; I feel it adds spice to an otherwise dull existence.)

Okay. That's the end of my Writing-Is-Powerful-Connecting stories. Back to real life:

So I've been very stressed out and angry about work, I don't know if you can tell or not. I've gotten one source of stress off my plate (sad, not-working marriage) kinda sorta, but now I've got this...this...gloppy gloop of 5 week old refried beans sitting cold, smack dab in the middle of the plate still. Fermenting. Mocking me. I've been spending quite a bit of time sorting through my life, trying to figure out what exactly landed me where I'm at, and that dialogue journaling seminar memory just went and raced itself through my brain the other day, and made me remember: oh right! Public education causes 12-15% of all divorces amongst teachers! Stupid teaching. 

Then today we had an ice cream social and I'd had a long day so I didn't feel like ice cream, or giving the stupid Sunshine Team $25, or being very social. I don't feel real sunshine-y there these days, so if someone in my family gets sick or whatever they can just take their flowers and shove them where the sun don't shine. Sunshine = pfffft. 

And also I've been examining and weighing my options. If someone at my school started a dialogue journal for the staff, it wouldn't be pretty. I mean, my dialogue part would take up fucking PAGES. Get a drink, get comfy. Like, I'd finally write that damn novel. But it would be in a composition notebook with a lot of swears and "And another thing!" and "And you don't even GET it!" and "Do you even KNOW what's going on???" and "Are you people for REAL?!?!?!" 

Pages of that. Like Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, only less concise but with better character development.

I think, at this point, where I'm at is: (1) try a different school [good], (2) try a different school district [better], (3) try a different career [best]. The problem with #3 is: what career? First off, which major Fortune 500 or 250 company or even tiny Mom-and-Pop quick mart needs a woman with a Bachelor's of Science in Elementary Education (minor in Spanish, with a concentration in Junior High Social Studies, GPA 3.5...brought that low because of the unfortunate decision to take Astronomy as a Science elective because I thought it was going to be like Pisces vs Scorpio vs Aquarius and stuff but no, turned out it was basically ASTROPHYSICS wtf) and a Master's in Early Childhood Education (GPA: 4.0, and several high fives from the professors who judged my capstone research paper and presentation). I know how to teach vocabulary skills, reading comprehension, language arts concepts, and I can fake my way through little kid math fairly well until we get to confusing word problems, and then some of my higher people are teaching me. I don't know. Would Corporate Trainer work? I bet most Corporate Trainers just fake it til they make it. Which I will have you know right now: I excel at. 

Second, Corporate America feels and sounds just as soul sucking. Doesn't it? I mean, helloooo: Donald Trump. 

Third, I have a kid, bills, and debt; so I can't just sell all my shit and start backpacking it around the world, living in hostels. And I don't suppose living in hostels WITH my kid around the world would be healthy for her.

But I can tell I'm at a crossroads because I simply can't stay somewhere that's draining me like this. Plus the situation is making me terrified of my bosses and I don't want to be terrified of my bosses; my bosses are pretty nice people, I like them all immensely. But I'm terrified of them coming into my classroom now to rate me (no, seriously, Internet: I am utterly terrified of my bosses coming into my classroom; I'm terrified I'll be having a bad day, or I won't have something they want to see filled in on my lesson plans, or 3 kids won't be engaged that day, or something on their checklist won't be present and I'll get marked down...I don't mind getting Needs Improvement, even though I kinda feel it's insulting to do to a veteran teacher with 20 years' experience...but I worry they're looking for ways to unload veteran teachers for younger, cheaper labor). 

I'm working at my very, very hardest, I'm giving them my very, very best...and yet I feel like I keep getting told unless it looks precisely like how this person does it (and, uh, can you wear cute cardigans like she does, too? We really actually love the Stepford Wife model), or maybe you can do it exactly like this research says to, and by the way: unless it produces these kinds of results...you suck no matter how hard you work. I'm starting to feel like, that even if I followed a script, they'd still have beef with me...and I'D BE READING THEIR WORDS.

sigh. I'm sorry, Internet. Really, I just came here to whine. It's kinda late, I'm drinking wine, and I'm whining. I hope you weren't busy or anything. 

I'm going to get off here now and get on Craigslist. See if there are any job openings for Town Crier that pay at least $55,000 a year + decent bennies. (oooh! You know what would be really fun?! That job where those guys stand on the corner dressed as a Chic-Fil-A cow or the Android Smartphone droid. I wonder how much THAT pays, and if there are free sandwiches and/or phones involved.)

avoidant personality.

Internet, it's 3 PM. I have lesson plans to see to, my place is a disaster area and Miss M and I need clean clothes for the week. My adulting skills are haphazard. I feel like I live like a hungover frat boy most days of the week.**

I like to space my adulting chores out - do one on Monday morning, another late Tuesday afternoon, a third after dinner on Wednesday...etc and so forth, so by the time the weekend gets here, I'm all done with grown up stuff and can go play. 

But my high stress job, when it starts back up again, prevents this. First off, I have to get up at 5:15 (which actually is more like 5:45 by the time I'm actually standing, numb and blank, under the shower) to be at work by 7:30. I just found out that if I'm not in the door by 7:30, if I slide in at say 7:32, I'm supposed to go sign in somewhere and let them know: I was 2 minutes late. (Is there somewhere I can sign out when I leave 2 hours past the time I was allowed to?)

Anyway. This schedule doesn't really work for me. By the time I get home, I'm exhausted and can only focus on doing dinner/cleaning up dinner, helping with homework/reading, physical therapy exercises, bath, bed. The end. And by the time the weekend gets here, really I just want to lie around and impersonate a...(I tried to think of a vegetable I slightly resemble to type there, but the only ones that are coming to mind right now are carrots and rutabagas).

Also, I have avoidant personality. I'm highly selective about the things I will do. And the percentage of how much someone is REQUIRING they be done vs. the percentage of my DESIRE to meet the requiring totally depends whether or not a paycheck or some type of reward is involved. If a paycheck/reward of some type is involved, they'll be completed to specified requirements (how well you specify will exactly determine how well they are completed - if you don't care, I don't care either). If no paycheck or reward is involved? Oh ha. Then it'll entirely depend on the following: the barometric pressure, amount of clouds/rain outdoors, my hormone levels, how much sleep I've had, the moon phase, the season, the number of daylight hours, if we're currently under daylight savings time or not, how much gas is in my car, whether I've had enough coffee that morning, how many little friendship dramas I've had to deal with over the last week, my current opinions about the Middle East situation, my bank account status, and how irritating Miss M was the last time we were at Target.

I feel like, since school/work re-upped a few weeks ago, I've done nothing here but whine about how I really MUST pull it together. Get my collective shit in gear and JUST DO IT.

However. I think I'm at a point now where I just feel like this:

The Cotton Floozy! She makes excellent needlepoint art.

Because you know why? I'm finally figuring out, at age 43 and so many months, you just can't do it all. There IS no such thing as balance. You're either doing swimmingly at work but your house is a biohazard area (don't even get me started on what's happening in the backseat of my car right now, where M resides on the roads of Atlanta), or you're doing awesome at home and you're about to be handed a We-Are-So-Over-Your-Ridiculousness severance package at work. Or you've found a way to maintain home and work environments but your personal life is just big wad of WTF. There is no magic formula. There is no balance. There is no perfection.

So basically, what I'm going to do, once I hit Publish on this, is to go make my bed. Fold laundry that's been sitting in a basket on my floor for going on 2 weeks. Straighten the living room. Put some Draino in the slow running bathtub (2 girls = too much hair in the pipes...I really want to say that's a metaphor for life in some ways). And then go think about how to teach 2nd graders whatever targets they think we should be teaching 2nd graders the 4th week of school. Which, ultimately, won't matter in the long run because there will be a meeting or a classroom crisis or a state- or district-mandated test to give, and really school and becoming educated should be about problem solving and creativity, not the difference between a verb and an adverb, the end. But I don't make the rules, and I need to pay rent and pay for Internet.

But if I DID make the rules, believe me: there would be siesta breaks and no taxes involved. I'd run a country that was practically Dionysian, with grape harvest festivals, fertility rites, live outdoor theatre every night, enforced ecstasy, and ritual madness. I'm all about 4 out of 5 of those things (I'll let you guess which) right now.

Oh, and! There'd be no more freaking RAIN. omfg, if this weekly weekend rain crap doesn't cease, we are going to have a PROBLEM, Universe.

**Apologies if you get a lot of weird formatting on your end with this entry. Not my fault - Blogger's having a weird day. It was all I could do to successfully upload images. But, I think it really underscored the point of this blog, and how willing I am to put up with a lot of other people's/thing's jackassery these days. I am just a veritable barren field of a whole lotta don't-give-a-fucks. A 5'9" honey badger. Hit publish, moved on, and hope that's okay with you.

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.

hormones and words.

I have started....a story. I think it's just a short story, and I really have no idea what it's about or where it's going. I put what I've written so far (rough rough ROUGH draft with zero editing, please be kind) in my ::snippets:: section. I just felt like writing a story about an older lady named Emmaline who no longer cares what people think of her. I bet this is because lately I feel the need to find my inner Emmaline, bring her out, and parade her around shamelessly and with abandon.

I am hormonal, have been since about Tuesday, and each day has been progressively worse. Some activities have lightened it: swimming at my sister in law's neighborhood pool with my little girl (I felt practically whole-bodied again!), going out for dinner with former work team members/people who are precious pieces of my heart. I think it's important to note here that every activity that has lightened my hormonal festering has involved me getting out of the house. (With one exception: I took Melissa to the library on Tuesday, where we were shushed 3 times and I almost broke my other foot trying to carry the bag of books we'd put on hold...I feel this may have begun the hormonal rage.)

The problem with leaving the house is this: I have to be on my good foot, which means my broken foot swells to elephantine proportions, and this is not good, according to my orthopedist and "sports doc" on ehealthboards.com. Which gets me worrying. And then I get pessimistic and annoyed and begin having thoughts that go something like: Really. I'm going to be walking on July 3? I don't think so orthopedist. What the heck do YOU know? Sports doc and all the other experts on the fractured metatarsal board at ehealthboards.com seem to think otherwise. (Please ignore me when I get like this: I'm just wallowing.)

I am tired of the Paula Deen controversy. It's been chewed up and spit out at this point, much like her, and I'm not sure what else good, non-prejudiced people not harboring resentments in their hearts are supposed to say or feel about it now. I liked it a few weeks ago when we all linked arms and stood strong against prejudice and racism and started buying Cheerios like the dickens. Even the people who are now all angry and mad about how Paula's getting treated were in agreement--leave that interracial family alone, they aren't bothering you! In America, we can kind of shine like that; we're good people when we see people getting beat down for no real reason other than them trying to live a life.

Which is why I think so many are rushing to Paula's defense. I just wish they were doing it in ways that didn't sound like excuses for what she said. If Paula Deen jumps off a bridge, how many will jump with her? Quite a few, if the internet is to be believed.

Please know: I do feel for Paula; I hate to see people get fired for speech, especially in a country that promotes free speech and all. But dammit, I abhor what she said (and, quite frankly, think her brother Bubba needs intensive talk therapy, possibly medication) and it should be addressed. So yes. Got a little hormonal/cabin fever/stir crazy, started reading commentary under news articles posted in my facebook news feed (tip: NEVER a smart idea when suffering from hormones and cabin fever), and then started seeing people I know and love talking about it, qualifying and excusing what she said. So I spoke up, in sort of hormonal way. One, because I have made a pact with myself to ALWAYS speak up when I see or hear prejudice, and two, because I was pretty frickin' hormonal and had had enough.

Needless to say, it did not go well.

Anywho. I have not written any freelance blog articles. I've been over at blogmutt looking for some, but what these people requesting articles written for them actually seem to need makes me want to get a bunch of push pins and stick them repeatedly in my brain. I would rather write about angry Southern older ladies, painted up for Dia de los Muertos, taking naked pictures of themselves flipping the bird at nosy, busybody townsfolk. This will not earn me a single penny (sorry friend Becky, if you're reading--I think I promised you a fancy Subway lunch with my first article's earnings). Writing short stories that lack direction is much funner (I know that's not a word; I just like it better than "more fun").

I feel like I need to end this article in a sort of pithy, witty, really wrapped up kind of way. But my kid is demanding access to abcmouse.com, and so I'm going to abruptly end this without a single ounce of closure for you.

...Except to say: please don't make excuses for the n-word, or get angry about black people getting to use it. Sometimes, people just get to do things you can't, and there's nothing you can do about that. And please don't get worked up about people calling you cracker or honky and nothing bad happening to them. Because first of all, cracker and honky both have the hard "c" sound in them, and I once read an article somewhere about writing comedy that said words with the hard "c" sound always get laughs. And second, because the words cracker and honky, if put in a boxing ring in a world championship fight against the n-word and all its ugly and hateful history, would be TKO in half a second flat. And if you don't believe me about that, gather some of your friends, black and white, to stand on a street corner and scream these words at each other. Every single one of you will look absolutely ridiculous, but I'd bet half a million dollars I don't have the people getting the n-word screamed at them will be the winners (nobody wants to repeat that kind of history, unless they wear hooded sheets to cross burning rallies).

every summer has a story: mine is titled "Blessing in Disguise"

I have written, but not decently. Mostly, my writing practice takes place in the form of sporadic, long-winded Facebook status updates. Because when Life poops down poopy poop on me, this is what happens: (1) I crawl into a cave of self-pity grief and moping. The End. (There is no (2)...when I started making this list, I thought there would be a (2), but then I realized, nope. There is no (2). Just self-pity grief and moping.)

Since I last posted about genre-finding, I've experienced a series of unfortunate events, as Lemony Snicket would posit (there will be a more comprehensive list for this part):

1- After 12 years of classroom trailer teaching, I asked for--and was granted, thank you thank you thank you--a move into the building. But this also meant I had to pack up an entire classroom of stuff in a mere 5 hours (for those who think a mere 5 hours is plenty of time to pack up one little ol' classroom, let me laugh wildly here and suggest knowingly, "One does not simply....pack up...an entire elementary classroom in a mere 5 hours." Show me someone who thinks this is an easy human possibility, and I will show you someone who works closely with or for Michelle Rhee and her Corporate Education Reformer Friends, and/or someone who has spent minimal (MINIMAL) time doing actual classroom teaching as a legitimate job. One does not simply...pack up...an entire elementary classroom in mere hours and certainly not if they're doing it on their own, all by themselves.

Or, in my case, when they do, they end up breaking something. See below:

2-In my packing furor, I lost track of time (and also, you know, maybe ignored the softly suggested "get out!!" announcement over the PA system at 6:45 pm) and got locked out of the school but into Classroom Trailer Land...thus, I could not get out of the back part of school due to the locked outside gates and also could not get through the school to ultimate freedom due to the locked building doors.

3-I'd heard urban legends of certain teachers successfully climbing one area of the back lot chain link gate and decided if THOSE gals could do it, I could do it. I mean, who cares that I hadn't been to a gym in over 9 months and am pushing 42 with very little upper body strength?? SHE climbed that gate?? Oh snap, this is easy peasy. I immediately summoned my inner movie stunt woman/Spiderman super hero (who lacks a certain sense of danger and common sense, all at once) and climbed. And I made it! I made it over! Friends, I was over that gate, on the other side, minutes from getting into my car all triumphant and strong. I was thisclose to being An Official Urban Legend(tm).

4-Here's the problem (every good plot has one): (a) I was wearing flip flops and (b) I lost my grip just as I was about to make it off the fence. I landed, rolled my left ankle, and landed smack on top of the left top side of my left foot. My fifth metatarsal decided it wasn't up for full weight bearing on top of it that day and cracked (wimp). Yesterday, I found out via an update x-ray my 4th metatarsal decided to crack a little as well. Had I just cracked my fourth metatarsal, this would have been a minor inconvenience. It was that 5th one that has caused all the problems (wimp). Because, heh, who knew? If you're going to break a foot bone, you'll probably break the 5th one, and the 5th one is the one you have to stay off of if you fracture it in just the right (wimpy) spot. Which I did.

And thus the grief process began: 6-8 weeks of my summer gone...okay, not totally gone, but extremely reduced and limited. No big trips, no pool time, a cancellation of my plans to start Being a Runner again, all summarized by a rather large break down/freak about on being physically able/ready to get my new classroom ready before my teaching contract officially requires my presence and begins again.

And can I just interject here with a big dose of reality: Isn't that sad? My first thoughts were not: Woo! Lots of time to rest! Just what I needed after this crazy year! No, no. My first thoughts were: What if I can't get back to work in time??? (Though, in my defense, please note: I need to be at least back to 80-90% by mid-July, because ha! Teachers don't simply...get their classrooms ready for a new school year the week they're required to come back. That week in elementary school is unofficially known as Meetings Week, which is kind of like Shark Week only bloodier.)

Still, I think it's clear: SOMEbody needs an intervention....please keep reading, because I did get one.

Fortunately, while I do not possess tremendous good sense when it comes to assessing my own physical abilities and limitations in regards to tackling 6 foot chain link gates, I do possess a fair amount of good sense when it comes to who to surround myself with in regards to people and friends. Carol, one of my dearest friends, intervened and reminded me that these things, while upsetting and frustrating, are often the Universe's way of sending us a Big Message that we were probably ignoring over and over when It was attempting to communicate to us in the form of little subtle message. My Big Message appears to be: Slow Down, Rest, and Go Pin a Butt Load of Crap on Pinterest. Also, Read and Write.

So I have given myself 2 weeks of Slow Down and Rest. For the next 4 weeks, I will focus on Read and Write. And this will be a blessing in disguise kind of summer. I will have lots of time to focus on helping my little girl do some reading and writing (which I did NOT have time for this past August-May), and I will have lots of time to focus on doing some reading and writing for myself (which I did NOT have time for this past August-May). And maybe, along the way, I will train myself to notice when I'm going too fast. I am certain I will train myself to listen to messages on the school intercom that are telling me to leave (except, can I gently suggest that the "Time to Leave Now" soft, subtle alert would be more effective if done in an ominously threatening and very loud evil, deep and gravelly ghost-like voice that goes something like: GET OUUUUUUTTTT NOOOOOOWWWW!!!! DANGER IS IMMINENT!!!! ? I think something like that would have lit a fire under my butt 2 weeks ago...or not, because I'm notoriously obtuse when existing in my own little world).

In addition to all of that, I feel this may help jump-start my freelance writing career. I have been accepted as a writer at Blog Mutt, but have done zero writing due to time constraints (of which I have few to none, now) and initial shock at how long broken bones actually take to heal. I fully intend to hop over to Blog Mutt and see how many websites need an expert on broken fifth metatarsal bones--I feel that, due to the extensive Google research I have done over the last 2 weeks, I have enough information to start a new career as a fifth metatarsal bone knowledge doctor. I couldn't do surgery on your fifth metatarsal, but I can give you more information than you actually asked for or originally even wanted (it's a trait I inherited quite honestly from my father). I hear Blog Mutt pays $8 per article, and I figure if I can find enough bone-centric articles to concentrate on over the next 4 weeks, I can accrue at least enough money for a new pair of orthotic shoes just in time for School Year 2013-14.

And I had good news at the orthopedist's office yesterday after my update x-ray. Bones, which take a notoriously long time to heal (4 weeks for soft callous formation + 2 weeks for hard callous), can be tricky...every bone heals differently, and every person has DNA factors that contribute to bone healing time. I appear to have been fortunate with bone healing DNA (thanks, mom! thanks, dad! thanks, other ancestors who also contributed!), and my bones are already showing signs of being on the mend. And so I have relaxed a bit, and have decided to stop shaking my fists at the Universe, my poor gauge of physical fitness/decision-making under crisis, and my wimpy left foot bones for being such girlie men. I will take the next 4 weeks I've been ordered to stay off my left foot and read, write, and write some more.

I will also look at the positive side of things (another message I think the Universe was using both hand to yank on my face to look at, just like my only child daughter does when she needs me to focus): I can still drive, I will have a slightly bionic right foot/calf/thigh in another 4 weeks, amazing upper body strength (ironic, since that's exactly what I needed 2 weeks ago when I was on top of the gate), and my brain still works (most days, but never on Mondays and not while climbing gates).

And, when not out and about with my 90 year old woman walker (complete with tennis ball feet for easier sliding mobility), my mom and stepfather brought me a cool, ergonomic office chair to wheel myself around the house with (until you can't balance on both feet, you never think about needing feet to use your hands...it's an interdependent relationship most people with full feet use just don't consider--I've been out in public since the accident, and I am painfully observant of this. In fact, I spend a lot of time watching able-bodied adults rush about and I just want to grab them and go, "Do you know?! Do you even KNOW?! You have no idea how easily your whole world can change just by one foot! Say THANK YOU!). And, of course, I have, once again, become aware of how stupendously helpful and giving other human beings around me and in my life are when the going gets tough.

Grace and Thanksgiving, much like feet and hands, just seem to work best together. And that's probably on purpose, via some type of Universal Law of Physics.

I remain convinced my left foot is a wimp, though I'm being much kinder to it now during our heart to heart conversations about wellness and healing. I'm sure the Universe broke it to teach it some sort of lesson as well.

beginnings.

Hi, I'm Amy and I'm a writer. Technically, I'm NOT a writer. Technically I have a day job that gives me a nice paycheck once a month, provides health insurance, and puts food on my table, clothes on my back, and a roof over my head (these last three are really important things because I get pretty nasty-tempered when my blood sugar crashes, I have a slight problem in malls and at Target, and I think I'd make a really crappy homeless person/panhandler).

But I still like to call myself a writer (lower case w), even though I've never been published. And, uh, haven't done a lot of writing over the last few years. It's that last one that's really putting a cramp in my writerly aspirations.

Never been published: I've only sent one piece out to one place and it was promptly rejected.  This didn't stop me from writing; I'm just using it as an example to illustrate how very little focus I have when it comes to writing: I've written for years and years and years, and I've sent out exactly one piece, to one place, five years ago. The End.

I've been fascinated with words since I found out about them--a story my mom likes to float around about me is that, when I was 6, I liked to read the Wall Street Journal. (I wasn't actually reading the Wall Street Journal--just picking out all the sight words I was learning. Did you know the Wall Street Journal is chock full of grade school level sight words? It's true--go read one right now and count them all. I'll wait.) And ever since that one story about the owl family that delighted my 2nd grade teacher, I took my Wall Street Journal sight word reading skills and applied them to writing stories. Second grade narratives were followed by 7th grade sci-fi attempts, which were followed by bad romances featuring really classic, romantic figures like Michael Jackson.

Back around 2001, I wrote a piece reflecting on the sudden death of my dad and shared it with some family and friends who all said: this is good! (because that's what family and friends are SUPPOSED to say, homies). But then I shared it with some strangers who said the same thing. And then I said, "Well, maybe I should write some more and share some more with more strangers." And I did. I wrote some more and shared some more with strangers (of the non-publisher variety), but lost focus and here we are today.

Not writing: I haven't written a lot over the last 2 or 3 years. I could say this is because I had a kid, and that's why. But a lot of people have kids and still find the time to write books or music or paint or ski or lose 100 pounds or whatever, so it's just kind of an excuse I like to throw around. I use it for why I no longer run/work out, too, by the way. In fact, I find kids are really convenient for excuse-making, as well as fetching things from the kitchen for you. I'm not suggesting that's why I had one, but I'm also not denying it.

Not writing. That's pretty big, isn't it? You can't really, you know, get published if you don't have anything thing, say for example, written down that's kind of, I don't know, ready to be published. Can you call yourself a writer if the only writing you ever do is in your head?

Lately, I've thought a lot about writing while not writing. Once upon a time I wrote every single day. In fact, in my head I still write every single day; it's just that nothing from there ever makes it to paper or a computer screen. But the act of actual writing, sit-butt-in-chair-and-write writing? Not so much. You'll see me waste time on Facebook and Pinterest a lot. I spend a lot of time with my butt in a chair doing that. You'll see me Googling odd and bizarre things like "hot celebrity men a girl can daydream about." I do a lot of googling about things like that while butt sitting. I think I alone am responsible for the 10,000+ hits on Gerard Butler, Clive Owen, and Jason Isaacs' unofficial fan pages.

But that's not really writing is it? And if I really want to be a Writer (capital W), I suppose I'll have to sit down and do that. My writer/ spiritual hero Anne Lamott says you're supposed to do this if you're a writer, and if Anne Lamott says to do it, writerly people: you do it!

Anyway. The whole point of this blog is writing. Writing about writing, posting snippets of stuff I've written, and occasionally doing what I do best: mourning my life in writing, for all the world to see and judge and comment on (is that not why the concept of blogging even started in the first place? I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere on technogeek.com back in the early 2000's).

If you are here because I found your blog and stalked you into visiting mine, HI! I'm glad you gave in and came here. If you are here by accident, I'm sorry? Maybe you'll find something useful (sometimes I like to write about pairing the perfect bottle of cheap wine and grilled cheese).

If you are Clive Owen, Gerard Butler, or Jason Isaacs or one of their agents, could you please leave me a note with information on where/how to apply for a personal assistant job for you? I am good at: writing blog entries that ramble off into incomprehensible tangents, putting a load of laundry in the washer and then forgetting about it for 3 days, and pairing cheap wines with grilled cheese sandwiches. In fact, I can't believe no one in Hollywood knows how to pair cheap wines with grilled cheese sandwiches, and I think that's wrong, a complete travesty. You should hire me to rectify that for you. (I'll need to bring my 4 year old along on most jobs, but she's very adept at tippy-toe walking and having melt downs in public so it'll be an awesome experience for everyone, I promise!)