This week, I’m writing in #hashtags. A #postitnote I scrawled on last week led to yesterday’s tip of the day which made me think about how we use them.
Are there #grammarrules? What would #strunkandwhite say about them? Is there a space between a hashtag phrase #likethisone or is it only attached to the #word it connects? If you need #punctuation, (like this comma next door) do you attach it or skip it? So, the boldfaced sentence I just wrote would look like this if I skip it:
If you need #punctuation (like this comma next door) do you attach it or skip it?
But now it #doesntmakesense above because I took out the comma.
Oh, hmmm, what do you do with #contractions? Do you use them or skip them as in the previous #singlesentenceparagraph or #singlesentenceparagraph?
#doesntmakesense
#doesn’tmakesense
#doesnt #make #sense
#doesn’t #make #sense
Perhaps this is a great time to understand and observe how #grammarrules are made and why they exist. Are we now the future #old #cranky people who invented these #dumbrules? Don’t even get me started on #citations…
Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.
Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.
Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.
One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.
“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.
“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.
It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.
“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”
“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”
“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.
I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…
“Where did this come from and why does it have MYNAME on it?”
I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”
“What did you do?” Mom asks.
“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.
“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”
“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.
Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”
Saturday. Or was it Sunday? I made my way back to the car to park it in the garage, accidentally leaving my purse in the front seat, forgetting to bring it in after unpacking groceries. Near the driveway, I see a few butterflies fluttering on thinned out stalks of butterfly weed stripped clean save for some blooms on top. Can’t bear to trim them. There are still monarchs coming through once in a while, although I’ve mostly seen queen butterflies this year.
A monarch! I grab my phone to snap a picture. If only it will land on a bit of butterfly weed. “Come on, sweetie,” I coax, but what’s that sound? It isn’t a regular insect mini-helicopter buzz. Monarchs are silent.
I follow its dizzying loops as it sweeps down and stops for a sip of nectar. There it is. A broken wing. Up it goes, fluttering up high, then down, and up again. The broken wing works hard to keep it in flight. That sound. It’s the wing pushing against air. I must capture this image.
And then my phone rings. Be interruptible. A bit of advice I learned from an ELA consultant years ago. The monarch stops, wings open. Poor thing.
“Hi, Mom…”
Off goes the monarch. I’ll never see it again.
This afternoon, I park the car outside of the garage again when I arrive from work. Gym day. I’ll be leaving soon, so there’s no sense driving it in for the day. The butterfly weed is busy. Three, or is it four, queens? Is there a monarch in the mix? The queens happily flutter when I spot it.
Broken winged monarch dances, twirls, dips, then stops for a sip.
Quick, be quick! I shush myself and take a closer look.
Still going strong, this broken-winged beauty. Despite the struggle, there’s life left to live, life’s sweet nectar worth drinking.
Reminds me of my extended family. We’ve been dealing with too many broken wings lately, yet there’s still plenty of nectar that needs sipping.
I snap a picture and for whatever reason, the Soundtrack of Life cues Mr. Mister.
"So take these broken wings And learn to fly again Learn to live so free And when we hear the voices sing The book of love will open up and let us in..."
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
View from 6th floor-Austin Public Library
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
I swore I’d never bring it to bed, but here I am, curled up with it balancing on my right thigh, curling up as well as one can curl up with…a laptop.
I also swore I’d never let the dog on my bed either, but a few weeks ago, I had one of those leave work early because the room is spinning, the light hurts, things smell funny, and I need a nap type of migraines where said pupper jumped right up and helped himself. He wouldn’t budge so I let him be, curled up at my feet. There are exceptions to rules. I didn’t bother to fight either one.
The dog hasn’t jumped on my bed since that migraine ridden afternoon. It’s late and I’ve been post-less for too many Tuesdays. Make an exception, draft something, and move on. Get back on track. No one cares I’m in bed with the laptop, except for the dog.
Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.
We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.
We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.
He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.
I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.
A glass shatters.
“Ooh, did you hear that?”
“What?”
I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.
“Creepy…”
I look to my left.
Gasp.
“Ghost!” I say.
I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.
At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.
“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”
But it sounded like it was dropped…
He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.
“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.
“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”
I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.
“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”
A quarter of a century. How is it that many years already? A quarter of a century of my life spent teaching, mostly. Slightly less than half of my life. Half! Twenty five years of packing up classrooms and now a library. Shoving things in drawers, closets, cabinets, storage closets. The garbage because..can I just go home already?
I pack my car with high hopes. Planning over the summer so it won’t be so much work. I still can’t manage to do it though. Laptop. I’ll need it for my first day back.
A bag-o-books, this fall’s Lone Stars, the best reads for middle schoolers. I packed a stack instead of all thirty and will probably read two. Maybe three since one is more than half finished only because it’s an audiobook and these days listening is easier than reading. I have my own TBR tower at home I’d like to read.
A pink Keurig needs a deep clean (and a break). I dug out a broken down box from the recycling bin to carry it out. Somehow it’s dripping residual coffee from yesterday’s second cup.
The Wonder Woman spiral notebook with a pile of papers jammed in its middle gets stuffed inside the box too. Good thing the cover is plastic and I don’t care if the papers get coffee all over them. I’ll go through each one to figure out what to do with them. Keeping things fresh so I don’t forget-when days start blurring together-about what it was that needed doing but could wait until fall.
These days, years, I bring less home. Twenty five years and I’m still the last one out. You’d think I’d have this moving out thing figured out. Everything that needed doing got done. Another wave of a spiraling timeline makes me dizzy. Some day I’ll pack it up for good. I look over the clean space, uncluttered counters (mostly), tables, desks, and unplugged computers. Desk supplies hibernate in dark drawers along with framed photos.
I turn in my badge and keys. My much younger self winks back at me. Have a good summer, she says. We’ll catch up again soon!
Where did the day go? It’s book fair week at work, so kids have been coming in and out buying posters, gummy bear-topped mechanical pencils, spy pens, everything but books. Money is tucked away in the safe. A short drive home feels endless. Pups greet me and so does a Taco Tuesday dinner in progress.
Before I have time to talk my way out of it, I change into workout gear and head off the Y for Body Pump. I’ve been going for years, three times a week, but once the pandemic changed all of the schedules, it has been hard sticking to that schedule. How did I ever go consistently three times a week? And the kids were younger? I vow to get back on track. Officially, the pandemic was years ago, but it sometimes still feels like last week.
On the way back home, police lights flash ahead on the freeway. Why did I even get on? Should’ve noticed traffic slowing down. Rush hour should’ve tapered off by now. My exit is up ahead. That’s where the lights are flashing. Can’t do anything but wait. Inching closer, I get into the exit lane. Everyone is moving to the left except for a few people exiting. An officer clears flat styrofoam boards from the highway, chunks flying behind cars that got ahead of it. I exit, grateful no one was hurt in a wreck.
I eat reheated tacos alone. The amped up outdoor leaf blower buzzes annoyingly. On and on with the occasional dog bark. It’s an oversized hairdryer of sorts, styling the backyard, freeing it of leaves and oak pollen that became embedded between blades of grass. When will it stop? I put away leftovers, toss dog toys in between for some play time, and get the dishes clean.
How will I relax this evening? Lights are on in the backyard. Everyone, including the dogs have been fed. Game night? A bit of journaling? Slice! I need to slice. Maybe I should take the day off? I just finished a 31 day writing streak.
Don’t do it! That’s how good habits die. It starts with one day and snowballs from there.
My laptop is open and I look through thirty three draft titles. As I mull around ideas, Dreams, by The Cranberries plays from the bedroom. Getting up, I retrieve my phone before my husband groans in complaint.
I haven’t even had time to relax! Or write.
An alarm is set on my phone for 8:30 p.m. I named it STOP ALL OF THE THINGS! It’s time to wind down. Get into pjs. In my current gym sweat state, it’s a shower first. Take out my contacts. Wash off makeup. Get the dogs outside one more time. Put them away. Make sure teen is ready for tomorrow morning…and I haven’t sliced yet.
It’s easier to skip it, but I don’t want a good habit to die. It counts as winding down.
I woke up this morning, with a pep in my step. My favorite dress was clean, the one I like to wear with my short brown boots and jean jacket. I added a sparkly strand of beads. I couldn’t tell it was going to be a terrible, no good, very bad day.
It started well. Observation scheduled for noon. Three classes before that, I got to work out the kinks. It went well. Students understood tasks and it was time for lunch. Except it wasn’t.
A student came in, one of my favorites. Lunch had to wait. Can’t leave a student unsupervised. I took a break to check emails and I got a message. Then a phone call. I could tell where it was going from here. It felt like it would become a terrible, no good, very bad day.
A phone call followed. I made arrangements for my last class of the day. Signed out. Drove to the school for an early pick up. Things will get better when we get home. Except they didn’t.
I called to make an appointment. “We take walk-ins, if you leave now we can see you right away.” There’s a plus. We go straight there. Traffic is starting to get heavy, but we’re just ahead of it. Barely.
We arrived and I completed forms. Wait a few minutes until it’s our turn. Get to the room, except something is missing. I call home, there’s something I need. No answer.
Text message.
Call.
Text message.
Call.
“How far do you live from here?”
“About fifteen minutes, but traffic.”
I could tell she’d say no. “Go get it and let them know when you come back, I’ll see you as soon as you return.” It has become a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Back in the car. Traffic is thick. Thirty minutes later, I get what we need and go back to the car. Drive back, trying to stay calm. When will this be over?
We check in again. Call us back. Everything is fine.
Back to the car. Back home. On the way, I get a call, “What do you want for dinner?”
It wasn’t planned to get take-out, but today I’m making an exception. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Nerds Beget Nerds 