finds us dodging each other
bumping almost shoulder to shoulder
stepping over a wet towel
or bunched up pajamas
if it's a bad morning,
we'll argue
if it's a good morning,
we'll argue a little less
"clean up the toothpaste worms from the sink"
I remind her
for the hundredth time
"I KNOW!"
she snatches the brush
before I can get to it
so I plug in the hair dryer instead
I decide to let the exasperation
and tone roll off
not. worth. it.
I wear my thick-skinned fur coat
24/7
grit my teeth,
breathe in,
breathe out
and carry on
with my morning
"this eye looks good
but why is this eye
just NOT working?!"
a white washcloth smudges off
a crooked layer of eyeliner
along with a few tears
she doesn't want me to see
I lean in, mascara wand
trying to make some magic
happen for my own eyes
I don't have time
to smudge it off
"how? how can you
put on mascara
without opening your mouth?"
I continue applying my face
she continues applying hers,
sneaking a glance at my
expertise
with a mascara wand
"I've been doing this longer
than you've been alive"
she leans in with her own wand
mouth wide open
satisfied,
she steps back
I look at our reflection
and try not to think
about the days
I braided her hair
in front of this mirror
and she'd want to help
with my makeup
“If I could shake the crushing weight of expectations
Would that free some room up for joy
Or relaxation, or simple pleasure?”
Lin-Manuel Miranda, Surface Pressure, from Disney’s Encanto
One thing I don’t like about myself is I have HAS-Happiness Avoidance Syndrome. I completely made that up, but I think I have it nonetheless. You won’t find it on WebMD or HealthLine, but I know it’s real. I don’t know why I have it. I try to get rid of it. I’ve read books, lots of them, on the topic. I’ve tried all kinds of happiness “Kool-Aid” from the best happiness experts and gurus.
However, some of the people who claim to have all their happy ducks in a row are millionaires. And the happy drinks they offer are laced with toxic positivity and a huge dose of privilege. I work hard to be positive and to see the glass as half full, which I discussed a few days ago, but then again, what’s in the glass? I prefer reality. No amount of positivity is going to completely turn something horrid into something not so horrid. What helps in those situations are a lot of people helping me through those times because you have to ride through them. If something’s awful, it’s awful, there’s no need to pretend it isn’t.
How did I become this way? Is it being a (mostly) rule following first born? Is it the high expectations I load onto my shoulders? Is it nature or nurture? I often have to tell myself not to fret about certain things.
Case in point: This weekend. I’m fretting about ordering dinner. What can I share with my ‘tween who will either have the appetite of a gnat or a full grown man? I’ve been sharing meals with my kids for almost two decades. Why? The damn budget. I hate wasting food. My husband orders whatever he wants, plus extra sides and a drink without blinking. Why do I have to second guess everything and tally the bill before we even order? I’m usually hungry and since we don’t eat out more than once a week (which I think is too much), might as well enjoy a good meal I don’t have to cook, right?
If I do share, ‘tween devours the double sized portion and I’m stuck scrounging up leftover fries or half a chicken strip with the breading gnawed off. If I don’t share, we wind up with too much food. The thing is, we can afford it. We don’t go to overly pricey restaurants and we order what’s reasonable. Everyone else is happy, so why do I do this to myself?
Is it first-born perfectionism? I’ve had to play adult before I became one. I helped younger siblings with homework. Cooked some meals when my parents were at work. I did lots of sibling-sitting while I was in high school. I’m not the only one. It’s the default when you grow up with two parents working. I don’t know if this is the reason or not and I’m certainly not blaming my parents. That’s how it was.
Thanks to Disney, I have Surface Pressure from Encanto playing in the back of my mind. Often. The song annoys me. It isn’t pleasant. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth and hurts my ears. And yet, it’s fitting. Isn’t that what HAS does though? It’s annoying. It’s unpleasant. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and hurts your ears. And thoughts. And everyone around you. Everyone around me. I’m working on it, but it’s hard. That’s reality. It’s self-inflicted. I’m trying to stop.
I don’t know what’s it’s like being a HAS-not. Happiness ebbs and flows. That’s okay. We can’t be happy all of the time, otherwise, we wouldn’t know there’s a difference between anything else.
This morning, I emphatically ordered avocado toast and a cappuccino. It was delicious and I enjoyed every bite of it. I didn’t share a meal with ‘tween and it felt good. Then I ordered a concha, my favorite Mexican pastry, to bring home for tomorrow morning. Might as well. We were in San Antonio and found a bougie Mexican panadería. I’m a sucker for conchas. I will be happy when I have it with my cafecito in the morning. Or at least the second half of it. I happily ate some on the way home.
“Everyone has a story to tell. All you have to do is write it. But it’s not that easy.”
Frank McCourt
We received two shipments of delayed book orders I placed last semester. Supply chain issues. I’m new at my campus after spending my first five years as a librarian at an elementary school. I went back to the middle. What people don’t know is there are more steps to getting books onto the shelves than what meets they eye. “They already come with the barcodes, why can’t you just scan the book and check it out to me?” Not that easy. Not that quick.
First, I have to make sure I received everything. Publishers make mistakes, so I have to check that all of the pages-of the correct book-are in order, match the cover, match the correct series, match the genre. I load the records. Not only that, I have to go through each record to check for errors. This is the ELA teacher equivalent of grading papers. It’s time consuming. Sometimes I edit records and change genres to match what we have at our library. Example: mystery books are labeled suspense books on my campus. When everything is ready, I send the records to our district systems librarian so they are added to our catalog.
I lay my hands on each book, label them with corresponding genre stickers, print new call numbers if needed, stamp the inside with the date received and label them with our school’s address. Then I pay for them. Well, the district does, but I have to enter financial information on a program that never has liked me. Each book is inventoried and the final touch is a bright yellow NEW sticker above the call number.
They’re enticing. So much so that I want to check all of them out and keep them to myself.
These aren’t the only stories I get.
Yesterday, I chatted with a student while she worked on a 1,000 piece Harry Potter puzzle I set up in our maker space. “I love puzzles. I have so many at my house. And I love books. My mom does too. That’s why I love coming here.”
“What do you do with your puzzles when you finish them? Do you pull them apart and swap them out or do you display them?”
“Modge Podge. I pour Mod Podge on them and attach them to canvas so I can hang them in my room.”
“Cool,” I say, pointing to my Wonder Woman puzzle displayed above the graphic novels. “I do the same, but I use foam core on the back. Heat the blade of a box cutter and it slices right through to trim it.”
We continued with the conversation of books. She described a tattoo her mom wants to get: a girl holding a stack of books ascending a staircase with one side of her parted hair turning into a bookcase. I oohed and ahhed, imagining something similar to what I’ve pinned to my Pinterest boards. “My mom also has tattoos her grandfather drew. He would be my great grandfather. He escaped Germany during World War II and he drew a lot during that time. He came to the United States. I’m half Jewish.”
“Your great grandfather fled Germany during World War II?” I had collaborated with this student’s teacher to prepare them for a unit on the Holocaust. “Does your teacher know this?”
“No.”
“Have you written this story? Have you told it?”
“No.”
“You have an important story to tell.”
“Yeah, my mom says her tattoos tell stories. One arm is for the tattoos her grandfather drew. Her left arm is for her vacations. She loves fish and the beach. She has a mahi-mahi, a catfish, and a turtle. One time, we went to visit my grandfather in Oregon. We went in a red van so she has a red van on her arm too. I’m not sure where we’re going this summer, but I think she’ll add another fish.”
She continued adding pieces to the puzzle.
“Thanks for sharing. I think you have a good story you need to write.”
I went back to the third cart of books awaiting processing. Of all the new stories that made their way into the library this past week, this has been my favorite.
llena de alegría y deseos dulces
¡ dale, dale, dale,
rompe la piñata ¡
uno, dos, tres,
zas y pum, zas y pum
doy más, y más, y más
ya no tengo
¡ ayudame ¡
I am a piñata
full of joy and sweet wishes
go ahead, go ahead, go ahead!
tear the piñata
one, two, three
zas and pum, zas and pum, zas and pum
I give more and more and more
I have no more [to give]
help!
I know, everyone is “celebrating” this once in a lifetime palindrome of a day. And I like palindromes, so much so I was fascinated with one of the characters in Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, who spoke in palindromes. The character, one of the daughters in the story (her name escapes me-it’s been years since I’ve read it), renames Emily Dickinson no snikcidy lime, one of my favorite poets.
I found myself trying to make sense of today’s oddity. I like oddities. We tend to find each other frequently and sometimes, people find me, odd. Never mind them. It doesn’t bother me. Usually.
I had to walk back into the house twice this morning for forgotten items. My watch, oh grand teller of time. And my H20.
At work, we started day one of a two day testing session, the bane of my existence. No matter how far removed you are from the classroom, you still manage to get suckered in for testing.
During lunch, I messaged my husband and suggested we do something to celebrate. Maybe a dessert. Maybe something out of the ordinary for a weekday with the kids, but what, I wasn’t sure.
Later, I got a message. My husband and my nineteen year old suggested we go out for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Dos Salsas, where two different salsas accompany your chips before your meal. To top it off, it’s also National Margarita Day. Margarita is my signature color and if I were to choose a middle name (my parents didn’t give me one), it would be Margarita. Why the heck not, I’ll have a margarita today, three days before the weekend officially starts.
No one complained about the choice of restaurant. We didn’t argue about the possibility of sharing oversized meals and this time I ordered what I wanted without thinking twice about adding a margarita. I didn’t balk at a shared dessert of fried ice cream-we rarely order dessert. The kids didn’t fight over the last bite of it either. We all got along and genuinely enjoyed our meal together.
And that’s the point. Being together. This felt like the first normal restaurant meal we’ve had in two years. We’ve been back, but someone always stayed home, and usually for pandemic reasons. I know we’re not “back to normal” yet, if that’s even a possibility, but it felt like we were all back today. 2/22/22. Two years (mostly) later. Two long, hard, bitter years.
Do we always do this? No. Have our dinners always turned out this way B.C.-Before Covid? No. But it sure did feel good to have my family back for a few hours. It’s giving me hope that we’re at a place where we can move forward and take all the things that got thrown at all of us and actually process them. For us adults, we had to put on our business as usual attire for the sake of our kids. But I think it’s important for them to know that it was far from business as usual.
I think today is a perfect day to use as a turning point. We can fully come out of where we have been and reflect on everything we’ve learned. We can share our gratitude about how it wasn’t worse even though it got rough. We can show how much we’ve changed and how much we’ve stayed the same.
Dos Salsas is still there. Mom still likes a good margarita. It’s okay not to split a meal, but totally okay to order dessert. Celebrate odd days such as these because they only come around once in a lifetime.
I broke my heart this morning. Not on purpose. I grabbed my phone and charger in a rush to get out of the house on time because, you know, always running late. The cord yanked it off the ledge and plopped it straight to the floor. Broke in three pieces, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and… I threw my phone into my bag, picked up the pieces, and put them back on the window ledge. I didn’t even think twice about it. Had this occurred last month, I might have cried. I would’ve overthought the implications. It broke into thirds. The petals of a flower fell off. The thorns on the vine were fine. But what awful thing awaits, the day after St. Valentine’s Day? My literary brain overanalyzes everything.
That might have been the case before I even made it. The heart. But once I decided to grit my teeth and sign up for an online craft retreat over Zoom (despite how I HATE online meetings now), I paid my money and waited for my package and February 5th. One of my favorite bloggers and artists, Kathy Cano Murillo, known as the Crafty Chica, hosted a mini-retreat to create five Mexican-inspired crafts. She’s in Arizona, I’m in Texas. Zoom is the closest I can get to participating.
Work in progress
She sent supplies for all of the crafts, one being a clay heart. We rolled, sculpted, trimmed, and shaped while asking questions and learning about techniques for using terra cotta colored air dry clay. It got messy and I loved it. While it wasn’t (isn’t) an artist quality piece, everything stayed intact. If all else fails, she suggested gluing pieces back in case they break or fall off during the drying process.
I was proud of myself. Everything dried well. I planned to paint it this weekend, to get the gist of it. My preferred medium is the written word. I stepped out of my comfort zone while comfortably crafting in my home where no one could see what I created. Advanced crafters and artists attended. My art skills sit at around those of third graders. Not a joke.
The point was to play and learn something new. I repeated this to myself multiple times. I knew many of the pieces wouldn’t turn out well and I breathed in and accepted that-not an easy feat. Kathy mentioned how sometimes you get “the first batch of cookies” when you make something new. As you keep practicing, it gets better. My daughter snagged the leftover hunk of clay, so I only had one shot. I wouldn’t have enough to make another.
Little Intentions Pillow
The day continued with sewing a heart pillow with a pocket on the back featuring her new fabric. I have hand-sewn before, but this was my first time for a blanket stitch. It took three sets of turquoise colored thread before I finished. Somehow I managed to tangle the thread useless and thought I’d have to patch up the final stitches in a completely different color. I haven’t completed the final step: writing an intention on a slip of paper and tucking it into the pocket to save for next year.
Tin Matchbox Shrines
The matchbox tins seemed easy until I tried to “emboss” a simple shape onto the back of a piece of a Bud Light can. With the right tool, it might have been easier. I managed. Painting on wood earrings seemed easy. The flaming heart didn’t look at all like a flame. I attempted to create my own pattern at the top and wound up with what resembled blotchy Texas bluebonnets. I didn’t put the earrings together; I doubt I’ll wear them.
Mini Journal
We ended the afternoon with a mini-journal. This was the easiest of the projects since I’ve been making and teaching kids how to make their own journals for years. I didn’t expect an online retreat to be so enjoyable. Fortunately, I wasn’t required to leave my camera on, but we still experienced those group meeting glitches from the early online meeting days: microphones on, talking to the boss during the break, pinning the speaker, co-hosting… Overall, I’d do it all again.
My heart broke, but it’s more of a burnt cookie I’ll toss into the garbage. I kept the template and I have ideas on small pieces I’ll try making and painting. I ordered two tubs of the air dry clay. It arrived yesterday, on Valentine’s Day. Just in time to replace my broken heart.
No, I don’t have one, but I sure did hear Charlie Bucket singing about his golden ticket as soon as my son surprised me with a chocolate bar when I came home. A chocolate bar is always good, but one with a mystery ticket…
…a popular social media influencer by the name of MrBeast launched chocolate bar products recently. Four of the said bars were procured by a young man-child, Mr. Garza, in a world-wide mission to win a non-Willy Wonka mystery ticket, but certainly inspired by Mr. Wonka’s Golden Ticket (original concept by Roald Dahl). 21st century mystery tickets are not wrapped around a chocolate bar and tucked inside of a wrapper, but accessed via QR code. Enter the special code and “spin to win” a chance for one of these fabulous prizes: Visit Feastables.com for more details…
I’ll take chocolate any time. My son fills me in on possibilities, “1,000,000 in prizes and offers,” one being to compete in a video to win the chocolate factory. A Tesla, earbuds, a Beast Burger. I tap into my inner twelve year old and think of the possibilities. If I won the chocolate factory, I’d manufacture book shaped chocolate, educators get it free any time. And it wouldn’t be one of those BOGO deals we get during teacher appreciation week either. If I win the Tesla…heck, I’d be happy with a free burger.
I turn the chocolate bar and look at the little corner that instructs me to peel the label concealing the code, which will be entered onto a website with algorithmic robots controling my million dollar destiny. Or that with the value of a burger. Most likely the value of the chocolate bar. I still haven’t “played” the game. I’m wondering if the code is a distraction and there really is a golden ticket wrapped around the bar inside of the wrapper. It certainly isn’t too late for dessert.
I keep breaking up with OLW (for some reason I want to call it OWL though…One Word, Little?). I once lasted two whole years, with the same word. We have a shaky relationship though. Just one? And words, aren’t so little.
Perseverance. Create. Creativity. Be (add another word here and switch it out every month so you get TLWs-two little words). Three, like I wrote about here-and is a much better post than today’s-a quarter into 2016. Courage. Blank-this year’s word because it hasn’t found me. Yet.
But this OLW, OWL, whatever, is like finding the one. Lipstick. Spouse. Wedding dress. Dog. Car. House. Vacation destination. It takes time. It takes perseverance. Patience. Creativity. Listening, which I’m not good at doing, not one bit. I like to think I find it, but it finds me. Hello, OWL, OLW, where are you?
Last year, I broke a fancy champagne flute we received as a wedding gift almost 23 years ago. We only used them to toast the new year or on our wedding anniversary. They’re the fanciest pieces of drink ware we own and only used them once or twice a year. Eventually, I decided to use them more frequently. Why do they sit in the cabinet? Shouldn’t I use them more often? I first took them out for special occasions like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day. Later, I used them for mimosas on Sundays after long runs, filling them with cheap sparkling wine and orange juice. My husband sometimes joins me, but it’s mostly a party for one.
I set them on the counter when they need to be washed. I once explained how they do not go in the dishwasher after I fished them out one day. They might get broken. They’re special. I can’t afford to replace them.
I began washing them carefully after a mimosa date. I carefully rinsed them and placed them on the drying mat. They always get washed first. I continued with the other items requiring hand washing. After I drained the sink water and shook out the dishcloth, I heard a clink in the sink. What…?
A piece of glass. I didn’t wash any glasses. No, no, no, no and NO! I immediately took a look at my champagne flutes, set upside down to initially drain the water. After washing everything, I always hand dry them and put them away. I took a look at the bottoms of the stems. Nothing. Maybe a glass broke in the sink earlier in the day and I didn’t notice the shard? I took one flute, inspected it and didn’t find any damage. I did the same with the second. No breakage on the bottom. Nothing along the rim. Well, not this side of the rim. I spun it around and there it was, a triangular shaped shard seemed to have been chipped from the front edge of the flute.
I almost cried. I dried them and couldn’t bring myself to toss the broken flute. I couldn’t even trash the shard. Can I fix it? If I do, I can’t use it. I researched crystal glass repair. Surely it would cost more to send it off to get fixed than it would to replace it, if I could even find a replacement. I like to think that I purge things I no longer need and after all, it’s just stuff. It was bound to happen. I’ve been using them instead of letting them sit around. They hold my little bubbles of joy every once in a while, on special occasions and on ordinary uneventful Saturdays.
I dried the broken flute. I might be able to use it if I sip from the opposite side. It might work for a quick toast. I’ll let my husband use it since I wind up finishing his sipping bubbles anyway. It’s sitting in the cabinet, unused, next to it’s companion that gets a little more one-on-one time with me. After a year, I can’t bring myself to throw it out.
New Year’s Day came and went this year. We were all under the weather and didn’t attend my best friend’s New Year’s Eve birthday party, let alone stay up late enough to welcome 2022. I had a mini-bottle of Prosecco for a toast. I didn’t open it until this past weekend, a week later. I filled it with cranberry juice and bubbly, clinking the air, while I opened my journal to write, yet again, my hopes and dreams for the new year. In sixth months, I’ll turn 50. F I F T Y! I plan to use both flutes for a toast. Broken or not, here I come.
Nerds Beget Nerds 