#morning #doughnutboy #spiderman #actionfigure #coffee #LEGObuild #makerspace #mlacitations #lessons #overduebooks
#lunch #turkeychilli #salad #again #friends #checkin #marcopolo #chat #calendar #evening
#bribes #jollyranchers #readaloud #afterschool #detention #whenteachersskip #kidsgotafreebie
#threemoredays #springbreak #sotired
#highschool #parentmeeting #already #staylittleforever
25 in teacher years, half a century in human years. Information sleuth and scientist employed as a middle school librarian where she has cosplayed as General (Sweet) Mayhem and Mabel Pines. On superhero days, Alice goes by The Garzinator.
Slow reader. Writer-ish. Former 6th grade ELA teacher. Spanish is his her second language.
Subscribing to a monthly sparkly sticker club, she hoards stickers, especially the sparkly ones, in a large binder. An AFOL, she collects and builds literary themed LEGO sets, but recently built a Vespa 125 and only needed her 20 year old son’s assistance twice via Face Time. She taps into her inner 12 year old daily. Alice breaks technology frequently due to an alien implant in her pinkie toe that she noticed after being temporarily abducted at the age of three. They like to visit at 3:00 a.m. for regular updates.
Writing credits include piles of journals full of the mundane, (sometimes) boring, everyday musings and glimmers of creativity, piles of poems written to her parents starting in third grade, lesson plans, Facebook posts, and blog posts on Nerds Beget Nerds where she occasionally writes to Judy Blume.
When she isn’t writing, Alice enjoys puttering, strong coffee, and wondering why she entered the next room.
She lives in the middle of Texas with her husband, 13 year old, and pure-bred mutt named Reeses, but hails from the Panhandle where she ate dirt on long two-block walks home in horrid dust storms.
Adult chore charts Reading logs gone wild Oh brain, why can't you learn to bend a little? If I fill every box every day does that mean I'm suffocating? If I skip a week, two, three, does that mean I'm dead? No. It means I'm too busy, flat out gave up for a bit, went on vacation Too rigid? Perhaps I like to see the ebb and flow of life on paper [I must] take care not to become over dependent on them, after all, am I focusing on checking off little boxes or on the better, bigger things around me? They're a shot in my arm, accountability for (hopefully) doing the right things that are hard to do so I can be better at the ones that matter They're a heartbeat of sorts multicolored messy proof that I'm doing my best at life I've seen interesting ones: meatless Mondays no sugar no booze daily journaling wordle dating no spending devotionals screen time (usually less) social media posts (usually more) Mine remain steady, seems I can't build those [good] habits yet I've tried giving up tracking everything becoming robotic in spewing out my own data my internal algorithm can't seem to compute making me feel like a failure at times I still go back to them proving I can create habits for behaviors I need to change adding challenges through my own volition (like writing for 31 days straight)
Sticky shoeboxes covered with construction paper long slot cut through the top where little envelopes drop one for every classmate wiggly heart shaped Jell-O Cindy's mom brought to the class party shiny gold boxes wrapped in red cellophane holding chocolates the popular girls got from their little boyfriends, gross! Outgrown class parties replaced with little messages delivered between classes are any of those for me? No, they're all for those girls a pile of them I wonder what they say They sigh as if annoyed, but we all know they like attention "I have so many!" Oh, shut up but secretly, I wish they were mine First boyfriend and my first "real" Valentine's Day gift a thin gold bracelet with a heart slipped through the chain I never wanted to take it off until that one day several months later where it made its way to the back of my jewelry box do I dare wear it again? Galentine's Day before it became a word ditch the study sesh none of us have boyfriends so why not go to dinner together? No tables available at the one cafe, of course not, couples got first dibs because people plan for these things we drive around, it's late now, and we find a little Italian restaurant where I taste fried calamari for the first time order our entrees and realize we don't mind being single A rainy weekend greets the rare Saturday Valentine's Day No plans made, but we have each other Where do we go to dinner? Everything is booked Let's just go to our regular place My gift is first should be perfect, it's something he enjoys then I open the card what? and he hands me a small box what? okay, I say what? and there it is, the ring I had been eyeing YES! I say yes he slips it on, call my mom and we head out to dinner, nothing fancy but I can't stop staring at glittery possibilities of forever More valentines cute pencils with fun erasers, stickers, snacks, a book for each one goodie bag assembly line load my car and brace myself for my first classroom party on the other side every student gets something it isn't fun being left out even if it's from the teacher chocolate candy and cute little notes pile up on my desk sugar comas (I'm glad I'm not the parent!) chocolate fountain and goodies from PTA in the staff lounge and bonus points for the one who brought a small bottle of Champagne flavored jelly beans Craft stick picture frames with my little cherubs inside them, trimmed with sparkly hearts googly eyes, and glitter whipped cream topped pancake with berries and hot cocoa fluffy stuffed animals heart covered pajamas bedtime stories "I lovey dovey you!" Gift bags with snacks because they're always hungry can't go wrong with candy lemonade for one, a root beer for the other decide against deodorant and find a silly squishy plush toy because they still like getting them "Oh, by the way, can I get something for my friends?" It's 9:30 p.m. the day before VDay No, just no. We should be getting ready for bed "I'll ask Dad!" No. You won't Wrestle with insomnia get up and find my seasonal purchases place them on the table, one of those shiny gold heart shaped boxes wrapped in red cellophane for hubster and a green squishy love bug plushie flanked with a red Ring Pop and a tube of mini-M&Ms she skips down the stairs as if on cue the minute I put everything down she picks up the love bug twirling it in a dance and sings her happy theme song announcing "You're going to school with me today!" At work the office calls I have a delivery For me? a bouquet of flowers unexpected and appreciated homemade dinner text message exchange with my oldest who stopped by to visit on Sunday I pour myself a glass of cheap Champagne fill the sink with dishwater and toast all of the ways people love me
I scrolled and noticed the post, Bono & Brené Brown in Conversation.
No. Freakin’. Way.
I didn’t miss it. There’s time to get tickets, they don’t go on sale until TOMORROW! Check the calendar, check the calendar, check the dang calendar. Who’s working? Is there a musical rehearsal after school that day? Doesn’t matter, I’ll arrange my reinforcements. But wait, 4:00. I’m at work until 3:45. Traffic. How much? Ticket prices are not available until sales open.
Wait. Nope. You have to at least try. It’s BONO and BRENÉ! Calm down. You don’t have a ticket. I have to try. I check the calendar and decided to take the afternoon off. I made imaginary arrangements for S to get picked up from rehearsal. And the price? I have unspent summer school and birthday money waiting for a big, fun, for me purchase and this is where it will go.
I set the alarm to go off at 9:50 a.m. on November 4th. I open the site for ticket sales to have it ready. I have classes coming in that day, but by the time I’m done, students will be checking out their books and getting ready to leave. Okay, calm down. It’s okay, don’t get your hopes up.
November 4th, 9:50 a.m. my alarm goes off as planned. I slip into my office and open the website. An updated message appears saying something like “Ticket sales for Bono and Brené in Conversation, another event, followed by another event, and another event will open at 10:00 a.m. …”
“Yes, I KNOW,” I fuss at my phone. I retrieve my purse from a cabinet and thunk it on the counter next to my desk. I dig for my bank card. How many more minutes? I refresh the page to make sure it doesn’t get stuck. Our building is notorious for clogging up anything you want to pull up on cell networks.
My heart throbs…
I refresh the page.
10:03 a.m.
Let’s do this, I don’t care how much it costs.
And I’m stuck in a queue. A virtual line. They rub it in and show virtual me standing in a cyber line. Lucky number 3,405 with 3,285 people ahead of me. The theater’s capacity is 1,270. Sigh. I found what I was looking for, but there weren’t any left for me.
In a real line I could have met a bunch of other people and been part of a collective disappointed groan. Instead, I put my card back in my purse, return it to the cabinet, and await the arrival of the next class.
I almost cried. Almost.
A week later streamers hang on the patio vibrant, yet tired a trampoline hasn't been reassembled and probably won't return to its spot in the backyard She's thirteen now we've long stopped synchronized wahoo-wahoo-wahoozie mother-daughter bouncing of summers long past, my hands intertwined with her silly little first grader fingers Gifted wine bottles line up one behind the other I sip from a new coffee mug and finish the last two homemade Mexican wedding cookies baked for a birthday A lone striped gift bag didn't get folded, hot pink crumpled paper peeks from the top A new sparkly evening bag invites possibilities and wonderings about unknown adventures How many more trips around the sun?
I must have been born with a magnetic plate in my head that attracts flying objects, magnetic or not. If I believed in alien abductions, I’d blame it on that too, but I save that one for my pinkie toe and other stories. Stay tuned. Ever since I can remember, anything launched into or sticking out of the air, finds me. The top of my head. My ear. My face.
The last day of eighth grade, brothers in our friend group, the only ones with access to a pick-up truck, invited us to their house to fill water balloons after our end of school year celebration. Officially, even though it’s summer break, we’re Freshmen. Fish. Stinky Fish. Why do they even call it that? Not wanting to be left out, I tagged along. I wore my favorite jams shorts printed with tropical fruits and a tank top. My new summer outfit.
I was supposed to go home right after school to watch my younger siblings, but I convinced them to stay put and not tell Mom where I ventured. “I won’t be gone long and I’ll be home way before she gets home. Don’t tell!” I took off with a friend and made it to the party house.
The plan was to fill the balloons, load them-and ourselves-into the the bed of the pick-up and drive around town catching the new unarmed sophomores unaware. My bestie had a crush on one of them and on one of the drivers, so this was more of a flirting opportunity for her than anything else. Summer teen romance with a side of a third wheel.
We filled buckets with water and loaded them with water filled balloons. The brothers got inside the truck cab while the rest of us climbed up the back and sides to find our places. We drove around, our pent-up and hopeful for high school energy oozing out of us hollering “Ninety! Ninety! We’re the Class of Ninety!” No one heard and no one cared. Except for us. And those sophomores.
We made our way to the only park in town. That’s where we found them. They walked toward us and then, “Fire!” We all scrambled for water balloons and began to aim. Mine didn’t ever go far. Not only do I not throw like a girl, I can’t hold on to any type of sports equipment and water balloons weren’t any different. The others, faster and with better aim launched balloon after ballon at our opponents. They didn’t need my help throwing them, so I started grabbing as many as I could hold and distributed them to the others.
With nothing in their defense, the sophomores devised a clever plan. Evenings had been rainy. The unpaved parking area where we sat in the truck bed was…muddy. They picked up handfuls of mud. Sticky, clay-like mud that holds its shape when cupped into the palm of a hand and shaped into a ball.
“D-u-u-u-ck!” One of the guys yelled.
I sat near one of the buckets, so I didn’t see the commotion. I kept handing out water grenades. “D-u-u-u-ck!”
The girl in front of me ducked. I didn’t.
WHACK!
Everything went black for a split second. I reached for my glasses, but almost couldn’t find them. “My glasses, where are my glasses?” Still unable to see because I kept my eyes closed, I felt around for them. I took them off and noticed mud where the lenses were supposed to be. My face throbbed. Chunks of mud decorated my new outfit.
I’m not crying. I’m not crying. I’m NOT crying.
The truck peeled out and we were back on the street, pitched mud balls hitting the side of the pick-up. Most of the other kids laughed and pointed while I tried to figure out if the lenses to my glasses popped out or broke.
“You look like a raccoon!”
One of the girls, in between laughs, asked “Why didn’t you duck down?” I didn’t think I needed to. They aimed for her, not me.
“I’m going to get in so much trouble,” I managed to choke out. I pulled chunks of mud off my glasses and found the lenses. Mud clung to my hair. When I almost figured out what happened, a bucket of water came at me.
“Why did you do that?” one of the girls fussed at one of the boys.
“I was just trying to help her get the mud off,” he explained.
“You didn’t have to dump the whole bucket of water on her!”
Some of the mud washed off. Still intact, I wiped the lenses with the bottom of my tank top. I held my composure, but throat tightened. “Just take me home now. I’m going to get in so much trouble.”
I climbed out of the truck and walked up the driveway. One of my sisters ran outside when she saw I was home as I headed to the water faucet in the backyard. I gave her a look and put my finger up to my lips. I turned it on and hosed down my hair. I was already drenched. I put my outfit in the washer, cleaned myself up, and put on my responsibility cloak.
I heard about high school freshman initiations. I watched them in movies and read about them in books. I didn’t know they existed for summer breaks. Later, I managed to laugh about it, but I still have that taste of mud in my mouth.
of oranges sprinkled with salt sticky sweet juice dribbling down a chin of memories well lived some uneventful bursting with simplicity some saved for savoring later when the mood strikes of time held on an analog clock holding still in good times or bad placeholders for stealing moments to write contemplate create of stories interwoven across miles initiating laughter provoking thoughts ideas resonating with souls unleashing frustration distraction confusion affirming realities and struggles inspiring hope and kindness through shared Words
wafted toward me this morning out of nowhere empty street no kids playing backyards seemed bare, still from where did this little bubble appear without others trailing behind? one shimmery rainbow glistening bubble floating in the air is it Glinda coming to pay me a visit grant me some wishes? promise I won’t cheat no asking for three more wishes but seriously, here I am a grown woman looking for Glinda the Good Witch in her puffy pink ball gown crowned in her sparkling tiara waving that magic wand contemplating three hopeful wishes that floated along in a single bubble until somewhere it popped
“The world always seems brighter when you’ve just made something that wasn’t there before.”
Neil Gaiman
A few weeks ago, I wrote about an online craft retreat I paid for, attended over Zoom, and didn’t skip. It was what my heart needed. What my life needed. A little productive distraction doing something completely out of my comfort zone. After all, I credit myself with art skills of a third grader, if that. I’m not that great. I’ve read about creativity and doing something other than what you already do to express yourself. You get more ideas and it helps your craft. In my case, writing. My thoughts on that are on the March 7th post, Building Creative Stromboli.
Life, as it’s currently happening, competes with craft projects. I needed to allow the clay piece to dry over a few days. It did. I moved it to another location, to keep it safe. It wasn’t safe enough. I knocked it over and it broke in three pieces. I didn’t throw my adult tantrum. I picked up the pieces, sighed, and mumbled, “Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. I can make another one.”
My son reminded me about the Mandalorian’s helmet. Beskar steel was used to mend it when it was broken. It became part of the helmet, part of him. It was much stronger, reinforced at the weak points, part of the art it once was making it into something new. Holding on to its originality. He took a look at my broken project after I mentioned I’d probably throw it away or glue it together with Tacky glue so it wouldn’t be too obvious.
“You know Mom, if it’s obvious, then it makes it that much better. You can see what it was supposed to be, but if you use something else, like glitter glue, it will be different and it becomes part of what you want it to be.” Whoa. Nerds beget nerds, but I can’t take credit for this one. And, hello, glitter!
Determined to paint the thing, I repaired it, first with almost dried out craft glue (it had been that long since I’d used it), then with almost empty tubes of glitter glue. I used the paint from the craft kit and got it painted. Lesson(s) learned: you do need to use good paint brushes. And have a good idea of the colors you choose. Maybe practice on another surface ahead of time. Almost dried glue applied with a toothpick doesn’t create a strong bond. Red glitter glue looks like blood.
I worked at my end of the kitchen table, covering it with poster board I use and re-use for making messes. I noticed random sketches from our beginning-of-the-pandemic flurry of craft projects to keep us busy. I haphazardly painted, knowing this isn’t something I’ll be holding on to much longer. I wanted it finished along with the experience of painting something other than walls. By that, I mean a fresh coat of interior house paint, nothing interesting or fancy like a mural. I worked quickly because ‘tween wanted to take over.
I worked in phases and finished it. I made plenty of mistakes, but my intention was the experience more than the end product. It got me thinking. If we mess up on something, no need to toss it. We keep what’s good. Aren’t we human art works? Our bodies mend themselves with new cells to heal wounds. Our lives mend themselves with experiences we live through to figure things out. Sometimes we can’t start over, but we can mend. We can use what we have to put things back together. We may not use glitter glue or Beskar steel, but whatever we choose makes us unique. There is beauty in the art of being human and it’s supposed to be there.
Nerds Beget Nerds 