Pray

I'm reminded to just stop and pray about it.

We know prayer works, some of us might have strong prayer lives, we enjoy prayer. But if you're like me, you go in and out of these phases. Sometimes it's so easy and sometimes you don't know where to start. Sometimes you have all the right words and sometimes you say the same monotonous thing you did yesterday. Sometimes you feel like He hears you and sometime you feel like it falls on deaf ears (even though we know better).

Well I have been going through one of the prayer-is-hard-and-takes-a-conscious-effort-phase. After a bad day of school yesterday (put it on the Top 10 Worst list) I was in a foul mood, to say the least. And before I went to bed I did two things.

1. I thought positive thoughts. Sometimes you just have to talk yourself into a good mood. I said, "I will make tomorrow a great day! I can't wait to see the kids. I'm going to be so prepared. Tomorrow will be fun in Kindergarten!"

2. I prayed. At a time where I felt guilty I haven't spent enough time in prayer or meditation, I just made it quick and simple and knew that I needed help.

Quick and simple. Just do it.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

That is the sound of me squealing!


This picture does not do my lil house justice...but Scuba and I put up Christmas lights on Sunday. Oh my heavens...it was so much fun! The buying, moving the ladder, falling off said ladder, him hoisting me up cheerleader-style, and the final Clark Griswald tribute of plugging the lights in! (And like Sparky, I blew the fuse. Twice. The company seems to believe that only two strands can be joined -as directed on the box- and I tried to string together 5. They were right.) Anyway, Scuba didn't fight at all! He even let me boss him around and get all OCD with the direction of the lightbulbs and the twisting of the strands. He was a trooper! I don't know what those people are talking about that get in a Grinchy-Bah-Humbug mood when it comes to lights. It was quite the adventure!


When we were finished, I stood back and smiled so big. I had an overwhelming feeling of pride, Christmas spirit, and nesting. MY HOUSE IS LIT!

3 Ring Circus

My classroom is the equivalent of Barnum & Bailey without superhuman feats and animal dung. Instead, it's human dung. J came up to me yesterday and said, "Miss Rose, I pooped my pants." Such honesty.

Today, my classroom was a 3 ring circus because I had an autistic child and his one-on-one teacher, a mentally retarded boy along with his one-on-one assistant, and a high school student observing me. There were so many eyes on me (all but the two special ed boys) to see what I'd say or how I'd handle the screaming, roaming, and complete ignorance. I think it went pretty well because everyone was on task for at least 2 minutes.

My vice principal came to observe our 3 ring circus for a short time yesterday. Later, she commended my classroom -the students and my teaching and management. The mentally retarded boy has been removed from his classroom and teacher that ignore him, and placed with me. The VP commented that the mentally retarded student should remain in my classroom because, "...I've never seen him so engaged!"

Tricky how they compliment you just so you can do the harder, more time-consuming work, huh?

I laughed several times today and had a smile on my face through most of it. They are special...but in a very good way to me. They are all cute kids and it's difficult to describe to you the gong show that I call kindergarten. Not only is there pooping in pants and a broken arm and pink eye and lice (not lying about any of those), we have autism and mental retardation...and a teacher with enough problems to blend it all together into one, big, happy family!

Marlboro Lights, Budweiser, and Turkey

I missed my little kindergarteners over the 9 day Thanksgiving holiday. And when I say "missed," what I really mean is, "was so glad I didn't have to tie shoes, listen to whining/crying/tattling, or deal with pee." But I think that is just understood, isn't it?

It is my firm belief that one of the best decisions my school district ever made was to grant teachers a week-long holiday for Thanksgiving. Many districts in Texas do this and it is just pure genius. I fear that the break was granted by superintendents across the state of Texas to avoid newspaper headlines such as, "Teacher Gouges Eyes out with Turkey Wishbone in Tragic Suicide."

I'm here to tell you that it could happen. I once considered sharpening my pinky in the electric pencil sharpener just so an ambulance could pick me up, I could go to the emergency room, and enjoy and afternoon of adult conversation. The wishbone-suicide fiasco is not far-fetched, my friends.

But let me tell you about a little conversation I had this morning with a student. I was so happy to see and hear the kids at 7:40am this morning. We got to the classroom, unpacked and completed our morning duties, and then had share time. We told all about our week-long, blessed, food-and-family-filled holiday.

Miss Rose: "What did you do for Thanksgiving, K?"
K: "Momma and dad made the turkey. Then dad went to get some cigarettes and beer. That's it."

That is why I missed my kindergarteners.

Oh the Horror

I did not hit my goal of blogging thrice last week. I'm so ashamed that I don't want to discuss it.


Except that I am a woman, and therefore feel the need to talk about everything in excessive and mindnumbing detail. So I will tell you that I did not blog because there was a national "milestone" in the presidential election (notice that I use quotation marks because others described it as such but NOT ME), there was an evening with wine and so much girlish banter that I could not blog about more girlish banter, there was a small-town German festival in which I consumed beer and sausage and fried potatoes and got home well past a decent hour, and there was a road trip beginning at 4pm on Friday. I was a busy girl.


But I must share with you something that embarasses me even more than not doing something I promised to do. It is this, my friends:




My Wednesday morning breakfast.


God bless Shipley's Donuts. I don't know where the urge came from, but I decided that I HAD TO HAVE a donut for breakfast last Wednesday morning. I went in, ordered a sausage kolache (for health purposes) and then my eye spied that delicous treat. I think it was called the Bullseye or Blazer or something like that. I whispered my order over the counter, because I didn't want the other donut patrons to judge me. The server didn't hear me so I had to say it a little louder. I hung my head in shame. Then he said, "Sprinkles or no sprinkles?" and I almost walked out of the door to escape my guilt. I didn't utter a word, only closed my eyes, bit my bottom lip, and nodded. He understood that I was a woman in need of a glazed, chocolate iced, white icing-topped, sprinkled DONUT.


I took a picture before I consumed my "breakfast" because I needed to remind myself that there are people who concoct such an item.


And then there are people like me that savor every morsel. I was wired until I sugar-crashed at about 8:30. My kindergarteners didn't stand a chance that day.

My name means "Full of Grace"

I got a little nervous a while ago thinking about what I'm going to write in my blog. As if I've never done this before. As if I've never graced you with an eyeful of mindless chatter before. Heck no. I'm a pro at mindless chatter. I blogged yesterday afternoon and set a measly goal of 3 blogs this week. I used to do this every day, for Pete's sake! And I thought I'd have nothing to write about...or no structure...or nothing witty to say. But that's not what you've ever expected before, so why start now?

And so I must tell you this story. I went on an 11 mile run yesterday. Because I'm stupid. The first three miles were a breeze and I was thinking about good topics for blogging. I came up with only a few good things until...

Until.

1. The toenail on my big toe on my left foot fell off. To be completely honest (and a smidge gruesome) the entire nail did not fall off. Just about 5/8 of the top. It's from running far distances, such as 11 miles. This made me curse running.
2. About 4 miles into the run, I had to Potty with a capital P. Several scenarios ran through my head of how I could remedy this issue. My best choices were to pray for the urge to pass or Potty in the corner and then wipe my bum on the grass like a 7 pound dog. This made me curse running more.
3. I managed to finish the run, albeit cursing running. I felt ill and attributed the weak feeling to having just RUN 11 MILES. I got home, drank a smoothie, showered. Then my body shook and my stomach wretched and I saw my green smoothie once more.

I managed to make it to the Potty for both occasions. My body curses running.

Ah yes. You missed my grace and tact, no? I aim to please.

A New Me

Ah the sweet smell of fall. Or whatever season it's supposed to be seeing that it's 84 degrees on November 2nd. "November" (and I use quotation marks because I've been told we are in that month, but am not personally convinced for the aforementioned reasons) makes me feel spry and remember that it was a year ago I started blogging. "November" has made me set a new goal. And the collective youth of America (none of whom read this, let's be honest) just let out a sigh of irritation that I, an adult, am talking about setting goals. Or more precisely, one goal.

My goal is to blog three days a week this month. Check back tomorrow.

PS. For all you OCD folks out there (if you just asked yourself, "Do I have OCD?", the answer is "YES.") this blog does not count as one of the three this week.

My Eyes Adore Them...

I would be lying if I said I didn't want to be highly intoxicated, pass out, and wake up on Saturday morning right now.

Today was my second day of teaching Kindergarten this year. Last night, I got home at 7:45. It's a miracle I got out of that school before 5 today. And truly, the only reason I got out of there as soon as I did was to come home and drink a glass of wine at the appropriate time of 5pm. It took me 4 minutes to finish off the glass. I kid you not.

So much for being a wine connoisseur. Or graceful.

I don't have much brain power to write anything clever or witty or charming. So I'll just share these few thoughts.

This year might be my most challenging. And by the true overseeing of God, it has started off very well. I have laughed and marveled and hugged and sighed and made good progress in just two days. Considering. Considering that I am teaching my normal class of 5-year-olds...with their novice eyes and impulsive hands and quick mouths...along with a few students with special needs. Two autistic boys and one girl with a chromosome disorder, to be exact.

Over the last two days I have wanted to pull my hair out. And cry. And then scoop those three up and just hug them enough to fix them. But I can't. It is amazing how one questions "normalcy" when you are inundated with "abnormal." I think about children in my family, children that I see out, my friends' kids, my friends' nieces and nephews. I'm reminded how blessed we are to be of "normal" development. I start to think about my future children. And I pray they are "normal," all the while wondering what that is. I pray that if they are not, there is someone in the school who knows how to reach them. Who doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to give up, and doesn't want to pull their hair out when my child walks through the door. What if that happens? Will I be able to give my child what he or she needs? I'm a certified professional in this exact field and I just don't know the answer.

But I tell you what. These kids make the world go round and I constantly learn that I'm not in charge here. I can't hand-pick my class. I can't hand-pick my children when I have them. But I can do my very best every day. And I can love them.

Even when Marcelo (he's "normal") hops around one too many times and I grab him by the shirt, get in his face and gripe at him to stop and his response is, "I love you, Miss Rose." Today, I said, "I love you too, Marcelo." I think I meant it.

Feel the Love...

I went to lunch today at a restaurant and then I went to the mall and then I went to the grocery store. I saw A LOT of people out and about. On more than one occasion, I thought, "Do you people have a job? Why are you not at work?" I said this out loud only once.

My least favorite thing this time of year is knowing that I must return to work in a few short days. It is very bittersweet. I can't wait to get back to what I love doing, I can't wait to meet the little people that I'll spend months and months with, I can't wait to organize and decorate my classroom, I can't wait to become a better teacher. But these excited feelings are conflicted with feelings of busyness, ineptness, and the loss of my lazy summer.

My favorite thing this time of year is watching mothers at the restaurants, malls, and grocery stores that I visit. They have a look of derangement in their eyes and I catch them pleading with their children through clenched teeth, "STOP IT! DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYING TO YOU? I JUST TOLD YOU TO...!!!!!!!!!!!!"

All is right in the world. Mothers cannot wait for school to begin so they can send their precious little terrors back to the teacher for the bulk of the day. And I cannot wait to receive these precious brains into my classroom. Quite the stark reversal from the end of May: mothers couldn't wait to recieve their children and begin the summer, and I (the teacher) was the one pleading with the child through clenched teeth and with eyes as wide as the horizon, "BECAUSE I SAID SO! JUST STOP IT!"

I can't wait!

It Has Begun...

The school year is almost underway. This brings feelings of excitement, anxiety, and sadness. I also feel frustration that I didn't do more with my time or make any notable gains toward my kindergarten classroom or curriculum over the summer. I basically just went to the pool, traveled, read, and hung out.

And so I found myself thinking that I need to tackle the yearly and seemingly insurmountable task of "organizing my classroom." For the first time in years, I did not move classrooms and this proved to be a serious timesaver. In both packing my room in June, and unpacking my room in August. Because teachers are maniacal freaks (well, for many reasons) and highly controlling and competitive, we find it necessary to have our rooms look the best and be the first one "finished." So I went to elementary school today and this is what I saw in my room.



Yes, that is all of my furniture stacked and huddled in the corner. I did not leave it that way in June. I put in two good hours of work (read: heavy lifting, sweating, panting, pushing) and this is my result.



My room is pretty well "set up," so now I have the task of cleaning out files, puting more posters on the wall, buying supplies, planning the curriculum, and writing 22 precious little names on things. Not an easy task, but one I enjoy! Whew!

Lions and Tigers and Bears!

OH MY! You know you said it out loud just now. Admit it.

So I went on a walk this evening in a park nearby my house. It's the neighborhood park, which is why living in the smallest house in a rich neighborhood was a grand idea. You get the pool AND the park AND the playground. Don't think I haven't wanted to go down that slide...because I have.

So I went a-walking around 7:45pm and there were lots of cars in the parking lot, yet only about 7 other humans on the trail. I have been to this park at dawn and at dusk and it's in a brushy area that has a lot of housing development going on around it. I always fear that when I'm alone on the trail, I'm going to be breakfast or dinner for a large cat...like a mountain lion. And if you think that's crazy-talk, well you're wrong. There are mountain lions in a larger park in the same area of town. Yikes! Anyway, I'm always on my toes while walking on the trail...looking in the bushes and listening to rustles. Because I am strong, but I am all about Stranger Danger! Animal or human. And just in case, I have a plan to poke the mountain lion (or human) in the eyeballs should I ever be attacked.

Today, I saw plenty o' God's creatures on that trail. And I'm not talking about the two lesbians that walked behind me the entire way, despite my increase in pace to try to lose them.

I apologize. I don't actually know that they were lesbians. But the close walking and talking, athletic gear, mullets, and overall huskiness gave it away.

ANYWAY...I was about 5 minutes into my walk and I looked to my left to spy a sweet doe staring right back at me about 30 yards away. I stood for a few minutes and cooed at her and talked to her and she liked me. She didn't even scamper when I walked away. But then the lesbians were hot on my trail and the doe darted for cover.

Not twenty seconds later, I saw a lil bunny hippity hop across my path and it made me go, "OOOOOOOOOO A BUNNY!" like I'm 8 and have never seen one close up. The lesbians didn't care about the gentle cottontail.

A bit later, I saw a green snake. Yeah. But it was pencil thin and about 1.5 feet long. I stopped about 10 feet away from it and carefully considered my options. I nixed the idea of going into the brush to avoid the mountain lion lurking and ready to pounce. I narrowed it down to...Option 1: Run full speed and jump over and Option 2: Slowly step over it as wide as I can behind it.

Option 1 won out and the lesbians chose Option 2 without hesitation. Then they looked at me funny. As if I was the one with the mullet.

Then I saw a bear. Large and black and fluffy. Okay, it wasn't a bear...it was a Newfounland being walked by his owner. But it scared the bejeezus out of me and for 1.2 seconds...I thought it was a black bear on a leash.

I found out it was a Newfoundland because, while I fake-smiled at the owner and gave the dog the evil eye, the lesbians stopped the man and said, "He looks like a bear! He's beautiful! What kind?" At least I'm not the only one that thought the dog looked like a bear.

And as I rounded the trail at the end, a jackrabbit hopped across my path. Not the same bunny as before. I crouched down to watch him 7 feet away, under some brush. The lesbians passed me up but I was enamored with, "OOOOOOOOOOO LOOK ANOTHER BUNNY!"

A doe, two bunnies, a snake, a bear! OH MY!

The Big O

Well I just don't know what to say to the fact that you've likely been checking back to see if I've posted anything new. And when you come to this site, you keep seeing the story about me getting my hoo-haw checked. And that's not pleasant for ANYONE. This blog will not be about my, or anyone's, hoo-haw. Promise.

Instead it's about Oprah. The Big O. Since the gods smiled upon my household and I got The DVR, I've used it to record The Oprah Winfrey Show every day. Every single day. There's so much estrogen inside my DVR that it's starting to have cramps and be moody. So yesterday, I decided that I'd clear my busy schedule of laying by the pool and painting and free time (who am I kidding? I didn't have to clear my schedule, I just did this in addition...) and watch most of the Oprah episodes stored inside The DVR. All 892 of them.

I've watched so much Oprah that I believe I just might also be a 54-year-old, Nashville-raised, Obama-supportin', Africa-teachin', Secret-believin', black woman.

Or not.

Okay well with the enormity of the Oprah recordings, I had to first sort through about 70-something episodes (I'm not kidding with that number) and erase the ones that I was FOR CERTAIN not going to poison my brain with. Episodes about Africa and politics and puppy mills. Instead, I kept the episodes about dating, polygamy, and Tom Hanks with Julia Roberts!!!

Because nothing says self-education like Forest Gump and Pretty Woman talking about plural marriage and why I'm still single. That's pretty much the summation of what I watched yesterday. And it was glorious. I was FASCINATED with the difference among the lives of plural marriage families. They are like night and day. I had no idea. Some communities are oppressive and shut off to the world, and others are modern American families just asking that their choice in lifestyle not be considered criminal.

Read: I am not going to join a plural marriage. I still belive it is unGodly. And creepy. And ALL the dudes are ugly. And they birth 6+ kids each. Through their hoo-haw! DANGIT...I promised the blog wouldn't be about hoo-haws!

And then the episode about Charlie Wilson's War made me want to 1. see the movie, 2. really like Julia Roberts, whereas I've always been opposed to her, and 3. have a serious old-guy crush on Tom Hanks.

Then there was the episode with the crazy dating-guru lady who told people why they are still single. No holds barred. And I didn't have ANY of the same problems as these poor people. So I felt a little bit better about myself. However, if I'm 35 and still single, I'm gonna call this lady.

Lastly, I watched an episode about a little thing called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Heard of it? Yeah, me either.

Hold on while I go make sure that I turned the sink off no less than 7 times.

Much better. As I was saying...there was this episode about OCD and I had never heard of it. Dr. Oz took some folks with severe OCD issues to an OCD camp to heal their OCD ways. Actually, he loaded them on a bus and surprised them at the OCD camp. First of all, how do you get obsessive compulsive people to agree to go with Dr. Oz anywhere unknowingly? I don't have a second of all, I'm just sayin'.

So these folks are mostly germ-a-phobs and it's ruined their lives. Admittedly, I make sure to wash my hands before I touch most, if not all, foods I put in my mouth. Only foods though. Anything else going in my trap can be full of germs. Kidding. So these folks are the very definition of OCD about germs and washing hands and not touching food and cleaning their houses and workspaces. It was literally OOC.

Out of control, for you non-acronym folks out there. Just FYI. For your information...GEEZ KEEP UP!

Dr. Oz made the OCD folk step on their bedsheets with their "dirty" shoes, give a group hug, and walk into public restrooms. Not bad, I was thinking. In fact, it just seemed like tough love to me. Like, he'd find their disorder and make them do something that any "normal" person wouldn't really think is dirty.

Until....UNTIL he made them do something so insane that I will forever and wholly abhor Dr. Oz. He made these poor OCD people touch a public toilet seat with their hands and then LICK ALL FINGERS. He made them touch the inside of a dumpster and then LICK THEIR HANDS. And you know what? They did it!

Are you freaking kidding me? I do not have OCD...maybe other disorders but definitely not OCD...yet I would NEVER, EVER lick my hands after touching a public toilet or dumpster. You are just asking for a parasite! I have a slight, yet rational, fear of bees but I'm not gonna coat my head in honey and stick it inside a hive!!!!! Goodness gracious Dr. Oz!!!!!

I bet the polygamists, Tom, and Julia would have backed me and not licked their hands, either!

Under Pressure

I have never thought of myself as having an apprehension towards doctors, doctor's offices, or doctor appointments. I see their service as a necessary and very helpful one to humankind. And goodness knows I possess neither the intelligence, ability, or desire to practice medicine. But over the last couple of years, I have noticed that I don't so much enjoy the doctor appointments.


I never really minded the opthamologist - seeing as how I've been going since I was one and a half years old. But now, I see the eye doctor visit as one that makes me feel stupid ("NO! I CAN'T READ THAT LETTER! Yes, you are correct; I do teach children their letters. But that does not make me able to read the big E!") and poor (do you know how much the contact lens consultation runs?). The dermatologist was NEVER helpful, seeing as how I'm 27 and have been on Accutane twice and I still have acne. The orthopedic surgeon was great because he fixed my knee twice, but I never want to see him again. I never minded the dentist or orthodontist when I was younger...even when I had braces. But now, I see the tooth doctor as someone who will very soon have to saw into my jaw and cut away bone that is my last widsom tooth. Why didn't my previous oral surgeon remove my third wisdom tooth while he was extracting the bottom two? Because he's a longhorn.


Oh calm down UT grads. I kid. I honestly don't know why Doctor didn't remove all three of my wisdom teeth at one time. Furthermore, I don't know why I didn't ask this question back when he removed them. And even furthermore, I don't know why I only have 3 wisdom teeth instead of four. Anyway, I fear the surgery and the verbal barrage that I must floss more...and therefore dislike the oral health visit all together!


But you know which doctor is my least favorite? The girly-visit doctor. That's right people. I know you feel my discomfort here. I'm going to share a little story with you today that is not for the weak. So brace yourself and buckle down to read a personal, yet hopefully funny, story. And because of the absurdity of my experiences today, I'm not the least bit modest with my medical history. So you're gonna pretty much get it all.


I used to have a general practitioner that was a small Asian woman.

Stop the story. Shouldn't all stories start out with a small Asian woman as the main character? Except she's not the main character...I am. And I'm not Asian. Nor relatively small.

Back to the story. Once upon a time, the small Asian lady doctor used to make me wait in her office for just shy of an hour before she'd see me. Then her apathetic physician's assistant would ask all sorts of questions in a completely dry and slightly aggravating way. She did my first PAP smear when I was 18. She was not gentle. It was not pleasant.


Do we need a minute for all of you to let the word PAP resonate? I bet you didn't see that coming. Oh and it's just the tip of the iceburg in today's lovely vignette.


So I left that doctor's practice and, quite frankly, protested all things health realated unless I was dying. I didn't go back for a girly-visit until quite some years later. I asked many a friend who they like to go to for their girly-visit doctor and one name kept coming back to me: Rami. So, I make an appointment with Rami two years ago at this time. And I went to visit Rami. Rami's my general practitioner but he does it all.


I'm not gonna lie. I was not pleased with the idea of Rami and all his glory down in mine. But he was nice. And funny. And a runner. You could pretty much be a serial killer, but if you're also a runner, I'll befriend you. I don't like many personal questions, even from the doctor. I don't like explaining myself and my decisions. But, when one is paying money to have someone evaluate you're overall health, it's not exactly helpful to answer, "I don't know" when he asks, "Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Is there anything you'd like to bring to my attention today?" So I shared with Rami as many details as I could muster...told him I protest the girly-doctor visit...told him that he's on an interview process.


Rami brought in the lady physician assistant so he could do the full body exam that we all know and love. And you know what? Rami's good. Until I heard some rustling and then he said the word "biopsy." Then I punched him in the face. After he came to, he asked for another assistant...because YES! LET'S INVITE MORE PEOPLE IN HERE TO SEE THIS! And so now we're all down there and I'm sweating in a panic. Then I heard a lady crack the door and yell, "Yolanda! Can you bring some more ______? We're gonna need more _______." It was a medical term and I didn't know it until Rami explained that it's an anesthetic. Oh good. Open the door up and bring someone else in here...with an anesthetic. My lucky day.


LOOOOONG story shorter...tears...frantic phonecall to Loop from the parking lot...a week of waiting...and finally negative test results and negative follow up appointments later...I was okay. Like a fool, I made another appointment to see him last year. Except that appointment was short and sweet and no mess. Probably because I sweated balls while I was in there and said two words to him the entire visit. It was a self-imposed shun of Rami because I feared the procedure and that he might say the B-word again. And he did not. And I loved Rami again.


So, today was my annual appointment with Rami. I made sure to have a relaxing morning and did all the things I like to do: run, email, watch lots of morning television, ate a good lunch, and drank a lot of water so I can be ready to pee in a cup. I mentally prepared myself. Not to mention the personal grooming that takes place before this doctor's appointment. Because, while I'm sure it's not THAT big of a deal to him, no one wants to be talked about at the water cooler for their lack of ladyscaping. And I was also prepared to discuss with him my acne issues. Which make me want to stick my head inside a cellophane sack and inhale repeatedly. Because ACNE AT 27 FOR NO APPARENT REASON IS ASININE.


I went through the whole kit and kaboodle of questions and answered them with a smile on my face and even made small talk with the physician's assistant. She's about 50 and very maternal. I like her a lot. Except for last year when I saw her at Barnes and Noble THE DAY AFTER she assisted with my PAP smear. She has a second-job and checked me out at the cash register. I don't think she recognized me with my clothes on and my legs not in stirrups. So, I answered PA Barnes & Noble's questions and we chit chatted and I tried not to sweat balls in the office. Then Rami came in and asked if it would be okay if a new physician's assistant came in to ask me some questions, "Because she's a student and it would be so helpful if she could come in and learn and..." And I cut him off with, "Yeah yeah yeah...bring her in." I was not totally on board with this idea but something told me to be a good sport. I instantly thought of me being a student teacher and needing to learn from experience. I've had several students observe my teaching and I let them work with my kids so that they can be proficient teachers one day. And the only way you're gonna learn is if you get in there and get your hands dirty. Pun intended. I let the PA come in to ask me some questions.


Okay. Well PA comes in...and let's just rename her PA Hottie. That's right. The 5'10'' blonde-haired, blue-eyed, fit, impeccable-skinned, kick-ace-diamond-ring-on-her-left-hand-wearing PA Hottie came in and shook my hand.




I wanted to kick her in the shins, but then thought that might be a touch less than graceful. I shook her hand and immediately thought myself to be a squatty and unintelligent pod of a person. Then I noticed she is an Aggie! PRAISE THE LORD - we have common ground! I ask her if she was and what year and she replied, "Yes, '05." very unaffected. Like she didn't even remember. I have to give the girl some credit -and yes, GIRL because she's younger than I am- she was professional and kind and asked all the medical history in a pleasant way. I kind of liked her. I kind of want to look her up on Facebook because I bet she has a site. Because, apparently, I'm the only one who doesn't. Okay so she goes through my ENTIRE family's medical history, and I had to tell her in detail all about my surgeries and procedures. Do you remember me saying earlier that I don't exactly like answering these personal questions? She made me repeat that I'm not on any medications twice. Like she didn't believe me. And then asked AGAIN, "So, no birth control? No vitamins?" I'm sorry...since when is a daily multi-vitamin considered medication? I admitted to the "women's daily multi-vitamin" but nothing else with a pseudo-smile on my face. I finished answering PA Hottie's questions because I know she's just a lil pup learning to medicate folks like me.


Then Rami came in and said that she's gonna do the exam...and then he explained how to get undressed and put on the "gown" with the white paper blanket that has the thickness of a doily to cover my legs. Seriously, do you need to remind me year after year how to do this? I got it. I follow Rami's instructions and PA Hottie and PA Barnes and Noble come back in. PA B&N looks busy getting the instruments ready and PA Hottie goes ahead and feels me up. Surprisingly, I was okay with this. I'd rather them do that than touch my stomach. And then she touched my stomach and I wanted to kick her in the shins for the second time. Especially when she blinded me with this again...

Okay so PA B&N has the stirrups ready to go...I'm mentally prepared...I'm hangin' off the table...and PA B&N reminds...REMINDS...PA Hottie to show me what she's doing. Hottie goes through the whole "This is what's gonna happen..." schpeil and I wanted to say, "Save it!" but just smiled and offered "Okay!" Because what I really want is a student down there in my business weilding a speculum with as much coordination as a one-armed monkey. Y'all she was down there for at least three times the normal amount and I heard her say, "I can't find the cervix."


Didn't see that coming either, did you? Yeah...NEITHER DID I. I wanted to say, "Well...I'm pretty sure it's there...so HUSTLE IT UP!"


There was so much fishing around and breeziness going on. I tried to remind myself that she was just a young lil Ag and relax as I sang the War Hymn quietly to myself. That's a joke...I didn't. I sang Spirit of Aggieland. Anyway, about 8 minutes later (and that's an accurate account, and FAR too long to be doin' that in my opinion), she found my cervix -YIPPEE!- and did what she had to do. Truth be told, it wasn't bad...it was just long and exposed. I mean, she was down there long enough to find my lungs from her angle. The PAs even made some sort of joke of needing a helmet like the ones miners wear...you know, with the light on the front? Yeah...NOT FUNNY RIGHT NOW. Are you done yet? Then I sat up and she reminded me that we weren't finished and had to do the pelvic and hiney-mo exam. She offered me a "Sorry" because she took so long. I don't know if a doctor is ever supposed to say "sorry" but I felt bad for the girl. She probably wants to be a PA for the cardiac unit and here she is - goin' full throttle on the ob-gyn spectrum. It's kind of like your first love though...she'll never forget her first PAP. Okay so FINALLY, I was able to sit up and hurriedly covered myself with the doily. As PAs Hottie and B&N walked out, Hottie said, "Thank you" and I replied with "Sure!" What? WHO AM I? Why say "Sure" or "No problem" or "Thank you" even? I don't quite know the appropriate response but I should not have been thanked.


Rami came back and we discussed the acne issues. He peppered PA Hottie with medical terms and causes to acne and possible options to medicate. She didn't know the answers, by the way. We dicussed my options and I got pretty riled up about it. Because I don't know if you've heard, but I'M A 27-YEAR-OLD WITH ACNE. I told him about the Proactive and how it's actually helping. After a lengthy discussion in which I emphatically shared my opinions on birth control, Accutane, topical treatments, and antibiotics...he gave me an inexpensive prescription antibiotic and a FREE YEAR'S SUPPLY of something that will clear it up. I'm not a fan of what he gave me because it is not being used for it's medical purpose...but Shhhhhh...we'll just ignore it and hope and pray that my acne goes away. I tell you folks, when all else fails, remind the kind physician that you are a poor teacher and he'll give you free stuff. Works every time!


Speculum...PAP...birth control...I don't even care if this blog gets flagged. There is probably some female higher-up at Blogger that firmly believes my story must be shared with the masses. No male knows our pain.


And guess what...praise the Lord for no biopsies. Amen.

The Little Things

A loooooooooooooong time ago...like 8 months...I started doing my blog and writing "The Little Things" on Fridays. I don't know what happened to that idea. Other than it probably got pushed into the recesses of my brain, covered up by silly worries and life issues that really were a waste of time. So, with that bit of optimism, I'm going to make my Friday list of The Little Things in life that are good.

1. Vera Bradley. I love her purses, bags, clutches, etc. This week, I bought two pieces of a pattern that is being discontinued. Vera would be my hero if she were a real person. You can see the loot I bought here: http://www.verabradley.com/Site/Store/ProductDetail.aspx?dept=400&sku=10326%3a60.

2. Laying out every other day at my leisure. Sizzling my skin to a nice, brown tone with oils and lotions and potions that are akin to something you'd rotisserie a chicken in.

3. Apple crisp. It's the perfect summer dessert. Make sure you serve it with ice cream because the thermometer is nearing 147 degrees and eating a warm dish from the oven would be a death-wish. Enjoy!

3/4 cup brown sugar (packed)
1/2 cup flour
3/4 cup Quaker oats
1/2 cup margarine or butter
fruit: apples, peaches, berries. Wash, remove skin, slice. (about 3 cups, but use as much or little fruit as you'd like!)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease round 8-inch pan with butter. Place fruit in bottom of pan. In separate bowl, mix oats, sugar, flour. Mix in butter to make a cumbly mixture. Put mixture on top of fruit. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Makes 6 servings.

Classy Topic

It's summer for me. I have no job. I don't see a WHOLE lot of people. So, I have nothing to blog about. Unless, of course, you want to hear about how 1 in 5 people have genital herpes...which I'm sure you don't. The only reason I know that is because they run the Valtrex commercial on daytime television no less than once every 9 minutes. It's a fact. Seriously, who is their audience here? Middle aged moms that are making lunch for their 7-year-olds. Are they really worried about herpes and their need for an anti-viral medicine? I think not.

ANYWAY...because I have nothing to write about, I'm going to start posting blogs from my early days of blogging. Before I had Blogger...before I had readers across the globe. Or...whatever...all 7 of my readers. You get my drift, though. So, I found this blog that I wrote back in October and it was about kindergartneres and poop. They two are mutually inclusive. ENJOY!!

Installment number 2. Number 2 makes me think of a couple of things. First, this is my second installment of my blog. I might have another installment tonight because I think it's so fun. So perhaps that can make up for the fact that I might skip some days - you know, if I'm busy eating cookie dough or something. Number 2 also makes me think of little boys in the bathroom. I said that I wasn't going to share my normal stories of "Pete peed his pants and Marina cried on the playground and my coworker won't check her email." I lied. Nobody has peed yet today (well, in their pants), but a little boy has spent the better part of the day crying (in the computer lab becuase he couldn't double click, time out in the room because he touched the knife I was using to cut the pumpkin -yes, I let the children play with knives) and my coworker is really stupid. She can't figure out how to check email and further she called humus "hyoomis" today. I looked at her like, "Seriously? You've never heard of HUMus? Ugh." But I just averted my eyes. Okay so moving on to why I think of little boys in the bathroom for #2. I just walked by the bathroom and eavesdropped on two of my CUTE kids from last year (first grade now) and one of them was obviously going #2 and I pieced that together from the grunting and straining that I heard. I started giggling to myself and listened for a sec, which turned into 7 minutes while the other one was just conversing about how "his karate teacher got fired but before that he could punch like 100 times a minute. 1000 actually. Hurry up! How badly do you have to go? Like 100 percent or 200 percent? HURRY UP!" OMG I love my job!

So I don't know what it is about today, but #2s must be 'in the air'. Today, while we are walking up from recess...in two straight lines (well, as straight as straight can get for forty 5-year-olds coming down from their fruit-roll-up-snack high and fresh off the playground hysteria) and one little honey squeals, "EWWWWW MISS ROSE!!!!!!! SOMEBODY POOPED!" as if she's tattling on her incontinent little friend who has just squatted and done some business. She's pointing to the ground and I can't see...I'm like 20 yards away (they're stragglers) and can't see the poop but I'm HOPING it's from an animal. I start laughing...real laughing because it's just that funny...and tell them that it's probably and hopefully from a dog or other large animal and to please not step in it. I reiterate this point for a good 3 minutes. Does anyone else say at work to another person, "Watch out. Don't step in the poop!" ? Sure enough, we walk a few more yards and a little boy then exclaims that he got it on him and shows me a LARGE SCHMEAR of poop on the back of his right calf. I'm so laughing at this point and we ALL stop and get off the sidewalk and onto the grass, I remind them not to step in any poop, and wipe your feet on the grass because we "will not trek poop into our lovely place of learning. The school is no place for poop!" I tell the little boy all about how when we get inside, he is to first wipe the poop off his leg with SEVERAL baby wipes, making sure not to get it on his hands, and then to wash his hands really really well to get the germs off. Okay. So, we make it inside and I'm doubled-over laughing about how many times I have just said "poop" with the five-year-olds and how a school is no place for the poop.

Then Mr. Gonzales comes in and shows my class the fossils of "dinosaur poop" that his class has just created and examined in the science lab.

To Mr. Gonzales: Thank you for discrediting my point that school is no place for poop. The kindergarteners will never believe anything else I say. Well played my friend, well played.

Looky What I Did!

Well I'm bored. I know, I know...I should bite my tongue and not admit that my readers. If nothing other than for fear of being struck down by the masses that purport that teachers "have the best job ever because you have summers off." Well I'm here to tell you that I'm bored.


And it's not like I'm not busy because I am. I've had lunch with a friend, worked a little on the computer (actual work, and not cyber-stalking), I ran 4 miles, finished reading a book, and I'm about to go donate blood. If donating blood doesn't trump everyone else's day as productive then I don't know what does. Perhaps I'll donate a kidney tomorrow.


Anyway, in all my free time, I've gotten really good at making a mocha frapaccino that rivals Starbucks...I gave myself a dang good pedicure...





Do you see the Fitness magazine next to my pretty toes? I read it and almost threw it into the fireplace. Except that would have done no good because I have no logs in the fireplace. Oh yeah...and it's 147 degrees today, so no need for the fire. Shockingly, the magazine was chock full of buff and trim women who do simple things like leg lifts. I'm sorry...have leg lifts EVER done anything for anyone other than prove that yes, you do have cellulite? The magazine has been sitting there for the last month and I scoff every time I see it. Even under my pretty toes.


Also, I hauled various objects from my backyard to the front yard for trash pick up.


That's right. MANUAL LABOR.


I hate working in the yard. Which is surprising because I like to be outdoors and I like to sweat. Even in Texas on June 21 when it's 147 degrees outside. I just don't like the unknown of flowerbeds: the critters or slithering creatures and just what in the world to do with all the plants that JUST KEEP GROWING. Stop growing for heaven's sakes! On Saturday, I decided to attack some green vines with my new pruning shears. Turns out, a machete would have worked better. But I found some good stuff!





Apparently, the previous owners aren't missing their butterfly stone (atrocious), boogie board (hidden behind the A/C unit), the lattice work thing (that I pulled off of the fence with my bare hands and brut strength), and the big tree stump (that I unearthed and found NO snakes!). It was productive to say the least.


Take that tax-payers!

Smooth Operator

After precious amounts of time and my retinal health were sucked from me yesterday in the Great Sunglasses Search of '08, I came home and ate a healthy snack. Nothing says abs of steel like a big bowl o' queso. And I only used he best ingredients: Velveeta, Pace, and Tostitos. All name brands, you notice? I figure the name brand foods can make up for the fact that I spent ONE DOLLAR on sunglasses. And those puppies served me well today. Good purchase.

I ate my snack at like 5:30, and then got hungry for actual sustenance around 7:30. A friend was coming over to watch The Bachelorette (who I have a super-girl-crush on...DeAnna, not my friend) so I needed to make a quick meal. I needed an efficient meal to curb my queso fiasco from a few hours earlier. I needed protein, greens, calcium...healthy stuff. So I decided a smoothie was my best option.

Have I ever made a food smoothie before? No I have not. My smoothies are chocolate protein shakes that are made with milk. And if they didn't add so much bulk to my body, I'd drink them all the time and even use them to brush my teeth. Delicious.

I have a friend who makes a food smoothie every day and he's very healthy. And I've tried the smoothie before and it's acceptable. Not like I'd brush my teeth with it, but good nonetheless. So I decided to make one of my own. Except that I substituted a couple ingredients that I prefer, over his broccoli and tasteless protein powder. My smoothie consisted of: a small strawberry Light Done Right yogurt, frozen peach slices, honey, milk, the chocolate protein powder, almonds, and spinach. All excellent ingredients by themselves. And my queso-euphoria had me believing that these would be just as tasty in a blended form. After all, I had tasted my friend's smoothie and it had similar ingredients.

Well, my smoothie, though serving it's purpose for speed and nutrition, tasted like vomit. Looked like vomit, too. Smelled fine. And it wasn't the spinach that ruined it...that green stuff is GOOD. I went wrong with the almonds. They were salted and should have been saltless. Cruel.

I finished off my food smoothie and ate some ice cream with Heath pieces on top. Blue Bell makes a new flavor, folks! Centennial Cupcake. Cake batter ice cream, cake pieces, chocolate icing swirl, and green clover sprinkles. The sprinkles support the 100th anniversary of 4H in the state of Texas. I once knew a girl in 4H. She had a lamb named Fleece.

I bet that friend of mine, and Fleece -wherever she is, God rest her soul- would support me brushing my teeth and even bathing in Centennial Cupcake. I highly recommend.

Time Suck Continuum

I lose sunglasses. Not a lot, but I inevitably lose them. I have one pair that I really like and they were purchased at Target. All hail The Target. I don't go nicer than Target sunglasses. Because, as previously stated, I likely lose said sunglasses.

Well, I purchased a second "just in case" pair in March. These were worn with as much frequency as the standard Target sunglasses. However, the new sunglasses were only $7.99 and also purchased at Target. As opposed to my "high end" sunglasses purchased at Target for $12.99.

Gotta love Mossimo at Target. Gotta love Super Target.

A while back, my sunglasses were dropped into Medina Lake. I was at the lake over Memorial Day and this boy that I'm dating (and actually like for longer than 2 weeks) dropped them into the lake. He was chivalrously hoisting down the wakeboard from the overhead-wakeboard-holder-contraption-thing (that is the official name) for me to ride, and his muscles were bulging, and he dropped my glasses into the drink. With quicker reflexes than a puma, I flung my bikini-clad body into the water, touched the precious sunglasses numerous times, before kicking them farther down towards the sandy bottom.

I am a graceful specimen.

Then, the most monumental thing happened: I didn't get mad that my Just In Case Target $7.99 Sunglasses were lost. Did I mention the bulging muscles? I think I was distracted. Oh, and I was about to attempt wakeboarding for the first time in my life and I was preoccupied with pre-game motivational and competitive thoughts that were running rampant in my brain. I'm pretty sure I even said out loud, "LET'S GO ROSE! YOU GOT THIS!", to which all four males aboard the boat looked at me with fear as if I were Kathy Bates from Misery.

So, now I'm down to my ONE TRUSTY $12.99 PAIR OF TARGET GLASSES. That I've had for over 6 months. Astounding, I know.

This morning, I got up for a run and looked for my sunglasses because it's BRIGHTER THAN THE SURFACE OF THE SUN at 7:45am in Texas. It's like the equator is a myth and we live here at the closest possible location to our planet's source of heat. Good grief. Anyway, I left the house, walked outside (dry-heaved from the heat) and then went back inside for my sunglasses. Except, I can't find them. They aren't in my purse and they aren't in my car.

I can't find them I say. Where are they? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

I think I left them in Bulging Muscle Boy's car or house and can't find them at my convenience. I begrudgingly run, and managed to make it the entire day without sending a frantic, "WHERE THE HADES ARE MY SUNGLASSES SINCE YOU LOST THE FIRST FRICKIN' PAIR?" text.

Again, I am a graceful specimen. Quite the catch, no?

I went to Target at about 3:30, searched the entire wall o' glasses, and came up with NOTHING. I was very willing to purchase the $14.99 pair, too. Because I am WITHOUT SUNGLASSES PEOPLE. Admittedly, the $14.99 pair were 30% off and I couldn't do the mental math, but I was pretty sure it was cheaper than $12.99. That is, if I found a pair I would actually wear in the presence of others. Which I could not.

Dejected, I took a stroll through the $1 section, and found a pair of packaged sunglasses. I kid you not. It's like my agony and searching was just so God could get a kick out of my eye degeneration from all the UV rays I've been absorbing for the last day! Seriously, the $1 pair were way better than any $7.99, $12.99, or $14.99 at 30% off pair that Target (pronounced Tar-jjay) has to offer.

Tar-jjay and not Tar-GIT since I am a graceful creature.

Spanish Dating Inquisition

It is with great hesitation that I share news with you. I had to tell my parents I'm dating someone.

Hold on, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Okay, I'm better. This is my LEAST favorite conversation to have with my parents, which is why I've only had it twice. Truly, I have always wanted to avoid the later conversation about the break-up. Therefore, I avoid the initial "I'm dating someone" conversation. I hate the questions and curiosity and excitement that is premature. I don't know the answers to most of the questions that my parents ask. But if I do, I don't want to share, because I don't like thinking about it. I'm scared to jinx it and make it go away.

So, I was forced into this (premature) conversation because my aunt and uncle know about it. And asked me about it.

Again...I just threw up.

I figured if Aunt & Uncle that live 90 miles away know about it, Mom & Dad that live 4 miles away should know. They are my parents, after all.

I was at my little cousin's 2nd birthday party this past Sunday, and my loud-mouth cousin (whom I love and trust in her friendship) must have told her parents that I'm dating someone that they know. It is appropriate to tell you that my aunt and uncle have always taken an interest in my dating life. They try to set me up, they ask me how things are going, they are curious as to why I'm still single. My aunt needs a hobby, to say the least. I always get the feeling that she 1. is apalled that I'm 27 and still single and without children (GASP!) because everyone in our family (except my brother and me) was married at 22 and had their first child by 25, and 2. thinks I'm a lesbian.

Yup. That's why I'm still single. I'm gay.

After Dating Inquisition '08, courtesy of my Aunt, Uncle, and senile Grandma, I threw up in my mouth and then I figured I have to face the music and have the dreaded conversation with my parents. So, I made dinner this week invited them over, and told them over our delicious eggplant parmesean. I think they had already pieced together that I was dating someone, seeing as how I've basically abandoned spending time with them. Oops. My mother was pleased that I finally told her something personal, and my father peppered me with questions. I fully expected the interrogation, but I wasn't prepared to answer.

"Is he a Christian?" My father recognizes the quality that is most important to me in finding someone to spend my life with.
"Is he an Aggie?" My father recognizes that the positive answer to this question means that we have a common interest in something that is important to me. And it will help me avoid confrontation for years to come when discussing colleges and sports. Critical.
"Does he like sports?" The follow-up question to the Aggie question. My father recognizes that he must love sports to fit in the family and for me to be attracted to him. I love athletic men.
"Does he have two legs?" WTF?
"Does he treat you well?" I would like you to realize that my dad asked about his limbs before he asked if the person is respectful, kind, and chivalrous.

Luckily, all the answers to these questions are "YES!' and that makes me happy. Especially the part about him having two legs.

Follow-ups were: "What's his name? What does he do? Does he treat you well? Is he white?"

It was at this precious family moment that I told them his name is Jose Gonzales.

Ole.

Life Lessons...

I'm on vacation. For ten weeks. And, while I'm not complaining (for fear of getting stoned to death by all the people who constantly tell me, "Must be nice to be a teacher with 3 months off.."), I must say that I have a tendency to get bored or go a little stir-crazy if I have too much alone time. I like time to myself, time to think, time to ponder, time to read, time to study, time to accomplish things. But too much time equals analyzation, overanalyzation, and that leads to conversations with myself. These conversations can be present-based ones that are possible, or they are complete Fantasyland versions of what I wish I would have said or would possibly say. The real trouble comes when these conversations take place OUT LOUD. With myself.

Oh the humanity.

So, to prevent such harebrained behavior, I try to keep myself very busy. Here are the things I've learned in the last couple of days while trying to occupy my mind...

1. My neighborhood pool is phenomenal. Minus the 21-year-old lifeguard that is friendly, athletic, in impeccable shape, and has a FAT diamond on her left hand. Oh how life mocks me.
2. When you spray bug spray around the perimeter of the high windows and you are aiming about 2 feet away, do it when a gust of wind does not come and spray the inseticide back into your face.
3. I still suck at lining the ceiling with blue painter's tape. It is just not one of my many talents.
4. You can catch up on 5 episodes of The Bachelorette Season 4 in about 3 hours time with the genius that is DVR.
5. A pretty girl in Lowe's will get all sorts of help from the garden department, plumbing department, and hardware department. They are so friendly!
6. I was at the HEB and saw an elderly couple in front of me, checking out with two cantaloupes (side story: that looked HILARIOUS when the checker held up the two cantelopes in front of her torso) and they had an entire shopping cart for those two items. I felt sad for them because I realized that they have nothing better to do than to make a daily trip to the grocery store because it passes the time. Then I thought, "Well, what else do you have to do at that age? HEB is probably the highlight of their day." And then I recalled that I've been to HEB 3 times in the last 4 days to buy single items such as mozerella cheese, paper towels, and foil.

I have become just like the sweet elderly couple (just with smaller cantaloupes).

Remember When...

Does it ever happen to you that you run across a song, smell, sound, tasste, or person that reminds you of something? I'm sure there are many other triggers. It happens for me most often with scent. The smells of foods remind me of July Fourth or the Thanksgiving in my parents' house; perfumes remind me of significant people and the sorority house. I bet I could spot Summer Sorbet from a mile away. Ahhhhhh.............

These triggers can bring back a flood of memories that fill you with euphoria, delight, pleasure...or conversely, remorse, saddness, anger. I welcome these triggers and find intrigue in placing the exact feeling, time, and place that I first experienced the trigger.

Today, a person was my trigger. I met with a friend to help him out with a job for his company. He's been one my friends for a little over a year, and I am good friends with his wife and enjoy her company. But I haven't seen this friend in four or five months and talk to him very irregularly. His wife and I communicate much more often and about very important topics such as The Bachelor, cooking, shopping....oh and her children, huband, friends, house and my career, friends, and house. Anyway, a friendship that you really want and find comfort in. Like we can go without communication for years and come back and pick up right where we left off. I always want to be friends with this couple.

So I met with my friend (they guy in the couple), enjoyed seeing him and catching up, and remembered a time when we were much closer. There was once a time when he knew everything about my life. As I sat and listened to him talk about A&M softball, my throat closed up and I could recall a time where I thought I'd be close friends with him forever. And his wife. And his children.

We met, agreed to some terms for work, smiled at each other and said we'd be in touch soon. I know he believes I'm a capable person, as he's told me as much. And then I left and got in my car, drove out of the parking lot, and as I got several hundred yards away, I couldn't stop the tears from coming to my eyes and all the feelings and emotions of a time that wasn't too long ago. I replayed conversations and encounters and allowed my heart to entertain all of the questions that I once had.

I say all of this because it is food for thought. Is this bad? Normal? Am I not supposed to be friends with them because it makes me replay a brief experience of mine that ended in a lot of hurt? Why does this come back and why won't God take it away permanently? Because I'm so happy and things are going SO WELL in all areas of my life right now, is this little experience something that Satan is using to derail me, make me question and wonder, scare me, and wound me? Well...it's working.

Productivity!

On my first official day of summer, these are the things that were accomplished:

Quality sleeping until 8:30am. Then a nap at 9am. I MEAN.
Ran four miles. Might as well.
Finished calligraphy project for wedding invitations and delivered them. Only took me one month.
Visited my parents. That I haven't seen in three weeks. Oops.
Had my car washed and detailed. For free.
Gigantor grocery shopping in preparation for hosting people to watch some Aggie baseball tomorrow. Whoop.
Got some jeans altered. The jeans were only $30 and the alteration is free.
Drinking a beer at 5pm with my roommate and her parents. Nuff said.
About to go to dinner with my parents, my roomie and her parents.

Is this not the life?

Bit of a Bummer

It is the final day of my contract for this school year. It is a teacher work day. Most importantly, there are no students to be seen. Here are some observations:



1. I got to sleep in until 6am instead of 5am! Glorious.

2. I didn't watch a child point to another and hear him say...no, scream, "MISS ROSE!!!!!!!!! HE..."

3. I get to eat lunch at a respectable time like 11:30 or noon, not 10:30am. I also get to enjoy this lunch at a restaurant and it lasts longer than 30 minutes. There are no words.

4. No one in my presence peed their pants. That I know of.

5. I didn't lose my patience, yell at the person, then feel extreme guilt.

6. I didn't have to worry about a child and their permanent brain developement (or lack thereof), and my influence on this development.

7. I was able to sit down when I pleased, have lengthy conversations with someone over the age of 11, and use the restroom at my convenience (without telling another adult about it).

8. I got a 4% raise today.

9. I ate breakfast with adults, sitting at a table, and no one rushed me to get to work.

10. I have 10 weeks to do WHATEVER I FREAKING PLEASE.



Except...no one really needed me today.

My Job Here is Done

It happens every year in August. I receive my class list of 18-22 Kindergarten students. I laugh and wonder why parents give their child a name with an apostrophe in the middle. I anticipate darling little faces that will accidentally call me "mom." I worry about whether or not someone has given them a pencil and taught them how to write their name. I fear learning disabilities and my own ability in coping, reaching, and teaching them effectively.

Most of them are five year olds filled with curiosity mixed with a slight bit of fear. And I worry about teaching them. Some are four and I'm worried. Some are six and I'm worried. I start writing their names on cubbies and nametags and posters. I call them "angels." I worry. I wonder if I'm capable enough to teach them all the things they need to learn: share, play fair, don't hit, put things back where you found them, wash your hands, hold hands and look both ways. Be respectful, learn independence, take responsibility. Oh, and how to read and add.

I watch them marvel at the inside of a pumpkin, penguins, how a seed grows. I hear them sing songs. I sit with them and explain how and why words rhyme. I listen as they learn to sound out words. I see them manipulate counters as they work a math problem. I try to help and hope I've succeeded.

Then May comes and they are pounds heavier and inches taller. They are more responsible and capable. I watch the miracle of development and know that they would have achieved growth in spite of me. It is my privelege to watch personalities unfold.

I may have yelled one too many times. They may have stomped across the room and acted far less mature than their age should allow. I didn't set expectations. They didn't respect my authority. And then it all comes to a close.

When it is Graduation Day, we walk in to Pomp and Circumstance. They sing "It's a Small World," I call their names, and they walk across the stage. And then I look at Q and D and think, "Man, they ticked me off this year." and my immediate next thought is, "I love them, though." And I do. They are just so fun and so "big boy." That comes from me saying, "Do you want to keep acting like that or do you want to be a BIG BOY?!" And parents come and clap for me and tell me nice things even when I think I'm the worst teacher of all time and I've screwed up their precious child for all of eternity. I receive gifts and meaningful letters that make me choke up because people believe that I made a difference. That is the best part of teaching.

So I give them back reluctantly. I'm reminded that they'll leave me and I've spent more time with them than some of their parents. And I'll forget them and they'll forget me...except for when we run into each other years down the road and for a brief second, we'll remember antics and the most special and formative year in school.

Paxil Commercial

You know that commercial with that sad, white stone that hops around? The one for depression medication? Welcome to my life today.

The Spurs AND the Aggies lost yesterday. What is going on in the world?

And I still have two more days this week of teaching yet my brain has already resigned for the year. Every year that I have been a student or a teacher, school was out before Memorial Day. The great district I work in has decided they want us to work for 8 days after the holiday, which is practically the same as shoving bamboo shoots up my fingernails. I sat in my car in the parking lot for 7 minutes this morning trying to convince myself to come inside the building. I lied to myself and said that no one would cry or bleed or whine. Everyone would do things the first time I ask. I made it to the foyer of the building before all of those dreams were dashed.

And the Aggies and Spurs lost. I fully expect the Apocolypse.

Moderation is Key

I have an addictive personality. When I find something I like, I tend to take it to the extreme. This is the case with hobbies, food, and everyday chores. Overkill.

It runs in my family, too. My dad knows no moderation. He'll buy 3 tubes of toothpaste instead of one. He'll order sopapillas for the entire table when he is the only one that wants to eat them. Overkill.

When we gather for a family event, we have 4 dessert choices instead of one, and we eat the entire cow instead of a couple of ribs. Most often in our family, it's the whole pig instead of a few slices of ham. Let's remember the Great Easter Throwdown of '07 which saw me consuming so much pork that my entire body swelled for 3 days. Overkill.

Though, the puffy feeling was worth every piece of honey-glazed goodness.

As you can read, I use excess most often when it comes to food. But I do it with hobbies such as running. I'll run 4 miles when 2 would keep my heart in good condition. Most recently, my obsessive tendencies and addictive personality has manifested when it comes to cleaning. This would normally be acceptable but yesterday I realized that I was doing something completely irrational.

I really like to Squee-Gee the glass in my shower when I turn off the water. I REALLY like it. It keeps the glass relatively spot-free and then I have to windex the glass less often. Bonus. Well, after my shower yesterday, I Squee-Geed the glass and then proceeded to the walls. When I finished with the walls, I had a feeling inside of completion. So, I then Squee-Geed the FLOOR of the shower. There was not a drop of water left in that shower.

Overkill. Mixed with feelings of accomplishment, pride, and pristene cleanliness.

Like I said...addictive personality, knows no moderation, takes things to the extreme. Is this normal behavior? I'll ask myself that next time I'm Squee-Geeing the commode or kitchen sink.

Heaven forbid!

Here and Now

Far too often do I think about tomorrow. Or the next thing. What do I need to do? I can't wait for what is next! Oh no, what am I going to do about this? Looking toward the future is a mixture of worry, fear, excitement, anticipation, and longing for me.

And it's not wrong to think about tomorrow. I should plan for tomorrow but live for today. I forget about where I am...the here and now. I lose sight of the people and places that I am currently experiencing, all in anticipation of the next great thing.

Because I teach small children, I easily focus on the here and now with them. I am focused on who they are today in my classroom. But, I am also preparing them for the future. For their tomorrow. Often, I hope tomorrow is better than today.

Like when one little boy made me want to drop-kick him on Tuesday.

The important thing to remember is that I didn't. Yet.

Kidding. Sort of.

It is a struggle for me to revel in a good experience because I gloss over it and look for my next adventure. I guess I never want to be disappointed. And nobody does. I think it is crucial for me to remain alert and be present. So I'm going to try. I will try by not wondering what is next and just "enjoying it for what it is." So many trusted friends have told me that in the last few months. And you know what? They were right.

Cousin, SNL, and TV have all told me that and it only took 4 months and 7 different ways to hear it before I understood and obeyed. I'm selective like that.

So, I'm going to enjoy my time with my 18 children today because I only have 12 more days with them. I'm going to enjoy the hustle and bustle to the end of my week. I'm going to enjoy time with a friend this evening and not worry about what happens next.

What will you enjoy doing in the present?

You Be the Judge

A little girl drew this at the science center today.

She said it was a butterfly.

Again, everything you ever needed to know, you learned in Kindergarten.

Vulnerable

There is this band that I like called Secondhand Serenade. Actually, from the research I've done, it's just one guy. But I have no clue why he goes by that. Perhaps his parents were cruel and named him that. Like the parents of a kid that I saw at a birthday party this weekend. The parents, Mr. and Mrs. McCauley, named their kid Caul. Caul McCauley. On his birth certificate. His sister's birth certificate says Molly. Molly McCauley. They were cruel, horrible people and I felt sorry for their children in fast forward. Because middle school's gonna be a witch for them.

I digress.

Secondhand Serenade is great. Soulful, thoughtful, soothing yet passionate. I recommend it. I think I'm going to buy the CD. Do people do that anymore? I have no clue how the iTunes phenomenon works. I'm sure it is smarter, for whatever technological reason, but I can't committ. So I'm just going to go out and buy the CD. Just like I've been doing since 1994 when I got the Boyz II Men CD. That was my first. Complete with "I'll Make Love to You," "On Bended Knee," and "Water Runs Dry." Oh how I loved "Water Runs Dry."

I digress.

Secondhand Serenade has a song called "Vulnerable." It's just perfection in the musical form. I love the melody and the lyrics. I recommend going to www.myspace.com/secondhandserenade and clicking on the song. My favorite part is the line that says, "Just because you hurt doesn't mean you shouldn't bleed."

Seriously? Nobody ever told me this. I started pondering this line last night. Sometimes doctors make patients bleed for good reasons. I'm no MD, but maybe stuff like reducing swelling in the brain, lancing things, etc. Again...not an MD. My point is this. I've been too scared for too long to bleed. I'm gunshy about getting hurt again. But just because I've been hurt doesn't mean it wasn't good. It doesn't mean I shouldn't have bled a little. And oh how I bled.

For me, I'm afraid of bleeding and hurting in relationships. But it is not limited to this. What do you bleed about? Your children? Your parents? Work? Responsibilities? Life is jam-packed with all sorts of things that can hurt us. But sometimes the blood is good to get us to where we need to be.

FYI...I bleed maroon.

I Must Have Been Adopted

So my uncle is/was a public figure in a Texas city. He has been interviewed by local television for the last couple of years, months, and very often over the last couple of days.

The important point to remember is that he was not convicted.

Oh I kid. He's one of the most law-abiding (and remarkable) men that I know.

My cousin sent me a video clip from a recent television interview so I could watch an impressive interview with my dear Uncle. I got the email at the end of the school day and fired it up while the kiddos were supposed to be packing their backpacks, stacking the chairs, cleaning the floor. Basically, it wan an invitation to run amok while Miss Rose was watching TV.

It's amazing they're letting me keep my job.

So I'm watching the video clip and a smart girly comes over and says, "Whatcha doin' Miss Rose?" and I told her that I was "Watching my Uncle on TV. Look..." At that precise moment a black man was also in the video clip.

It is now a relative time for me to tell you that I'm not black. At all. Miss Rose = Super White Girl.

So the girly watching sees the man on the video clip and, without shock or confusion or hesitation, said, "Oh. The black one is your uncle."

It was a statement y'all. She didn't even ask. It was so clear in her head that my Uncle is, OF COURSE, a black man.

You learned everything you need to know in Kindergarten, folks.

School of Thought

I know my blogging has not been perfection, but I have tried to blog more often than the month of March. I'm sorry if I have failed you, friends. I would hate to fall off the face of the planet and then you wouldn't know where to turn or what to do without the daily wit of Miss Rose to keep you going.

Okay, perhaps that was a bit dramatic.

I have something very important to talk to you about today. I'll need your full attention.

What are your thoughts on figs? Newtons, right? That's all I can think of, too. I've never eaten a fig other than in a Newton. I've never heard of fig pie or fig preserves or a fig tart.

But doggonit, I've got a fig tree in my backyard. Big and bloomin'.

Just in case I want to make some Newtons. Awesome.

Hug a Teacher

It is Teacher Appreciation week and someone provided desserts after lunch in the teacher lounge today. I ate a brownie and chocolate chip cookie after at 11am.

Nothing speaks my love language like chocolate.

I'm pretty sure I can make it another 19 days, 2 hours, and 30 minutes.

Oh and the chocolate fudge frosted pop tart this morning did the trick, too. You'll remember how I purchased those at a weak moment with incredibly low blood sugar a couple weeks ago at HEB. 100% unnatural chocolatey breakfast pastry goodness does not disappoint.

Amen.

The Secrets That We Keep

Every Sunday morning, I visit this website: http://www.postsecret.blogspot.com/. This website is a place where people illustrate and mail in postcards anonymously and share their secrets. Yes, it is likely to have a couple of questionable images. However, I find more often than not, that I can relate to these secrets...thoughts...questions...experiences. I bet you can find one or two that you can relate to as well.


The website is updated on Sundays and I look forward to seeing insight into the lives of people I don't know. And everyone is just walking around out there carrying their burdens. We come across these people every day! Many of the secrets are common among people. We have challenges. We have things we don't share. We don't want people to know. We do this because even though humanity strives "not to judge," it is a fact of life. We don't share because we are afraid of others knowing our true selves. We think, "Oh if they only knew the real me or what I felt or thought about this, then they will think I'm a bad person and they will leave." So we hide these thoughts and feelings. And they become secrets. And sharing them anonymously allows us to purge ourselves of worry. I have thought about it many times but I never know which secret I would write.



I'm going to share some now.

1. When you are talking to me and I don't respond orally, it is because I want you to shut up. Now.

2. I run down one of the busiest streets in my city during a high traffic time because I want people to see me and think, "Wow. She's athletic. And hot."

3. Sometimes I think I'm better because I've done things independently.

4. I'm afraid I'll never fall in love because I'm too intellectual and independent. I wonder if I should dumb it down and seem helpless. It never works. Vicious cycle.

5. At a size 2, I still don't like my stomach and want to fix it. Women can never win.

Honesty is the Best Policy

Earlier today, I commented on how boys are ew. Girls are never ew. Ever.

Watch this.

http://www.vimeo.com/973345?pg=embed&sec=973345

Boys. Ew.

We've been in school for 155 days so far this year. I know this because we do the same, monotonous routine of couting by hundreds, tens, and ones. Every. Single. Morning. It makes me shake.

155 days does not prepare you for hearing a little boy explain how his junk is "sticky." That's right. Sticky. His junk.

I only have a certifcate and this sounds like something someone with a license should deal with.

A little boy in the class next door, (and secretly, I'm so thankful that he is not in my class), was telling his teacher and me at recess today how "here and here" -pointing to his two 'boys'- are "sticky." The other teacher has a middle school boy of her own, so this kind of talk was no surprise. I, on the otherhand, gave him the most revolting face and just walked away.

If I have a future talking to any kind of male about how "sticky" he is "here and here," then I don't want to date. Or marry. Or have children.

Ew.

Mrs. Butterworth Would Be Turned On

One of my favorite kids in the class came up to me and stuck out his wrist. I had no earthly idea what he wanted, but kids often try to communicate sans words. This is a welcome change from the ones who often talk to see how loud they can get or just to make my ears bleed.

So this kiddo with his wrist out just stands there and looks at me and I start to giggle. He's quirky, highly intelligent, and loves to hold my hand. It only took him 7 months to warm up to me, but a while back she started letting me in and I love it. He's all hard on the outside but soft in the middle. Like the perfect chocolate chip cookie. Do you see how I can always bring everything back to food?

Kiddo standing...wrist out...both giggling...7:40am...and I manage to say, "Use some words, please." and he says, "Smell." I would normally be a little wary of smelling a kid's arm -or any other part of their body, and believe me, they ask- but this kid is clean and cute so I took a whiff.

He was the perfect mixture of cologne and syrup (oddly enough). It actually smelled good. He unnecessarily told me that he put on dad's cologne and had waffles for breakfast. Mmmmm!

Coping Mechanism

No, I have not found the frickin paintbrushes. It's practically driving me insane. Or perhaps I was already driven insane by the little boy in my class today who said, "Oh snap!" at least seven times. It's hard not to chuckle when he says that. But the chuckling stops when you remember that he has two fathers and he probably picked up "Oh snap!" from the one father that works at a hair salon. I kid you not.

Here are the things that I need to do:

1. Find the frickin paintbrushes.
2. Do calligraphy on wedding invitations.
3. Email my advisor and FIGURE OUT GRADUATE SCHOOL because I am a waste of space and excellent at procrastinating in this arena.
4. Read 20 pages of the Bible study and answer all the questions before tomorrow night.
5. Give myself a pedicure and manicure before 7:20 tonight.
6. Lift weights and do crunches.
7. Read a couple of articles on gifted learners and then write a couple of paragraphs summarizing my (nonexistent) thoughts. I MUST do this tonight because I have to submit it tomorrow in order to finish my G/T Certification.
8. Finish thawing the chicken; cook the chicken and other items for dinner.
9. Put the clothes in the dryer, take them out, iron them.

Would you like to know what I'm going to do instead? Publish this post and then go to the bathroom (probably TMI). Then I'm going to crawl onto my bed in the fetal position and take a nap. This list sends me over the edge.

No Wonder Van Gogh Cut Off His Ear

For MONTHS AND MONTHS I have been planning to paint some canvases for my new little neice. I'm painting the letters of her name on 5x7 canvases. It will be spectacular. Do you know what you need to paint letters on canvases? There are a couple of essential items. Let me enumerate:

1. Correct letters. Sweet was born on Saturday and her mom and dad (my bro and SNL) finally shared her name upon her arrival! This allows me to know the exact letters, in correct order, other than, "Her name has eight letters." So, now I can paint the letters on the canvases! But you can't paint without...

2. Paint. Her room is pink and I already painted a chocolate brown ribbon on the wall. The canvases are cream (light mocha to be exact) and I'm painting brown letters with a pink trim. There will also be pink and brown accents such as dots and stripes and swirls and dashes. I have the perfect paint pens and multiple shades of pink and brown. I'm almost ready! Now all I need are...

3. Paintbrushes. Naturally. I have a perfect set that I've accumulated throughout the years. I have old brushes for ratty shading and spotting. I have new brushes for trim work. I have thin, thick, pointy, fan, wide, narrow brushes. They are a treasure for any artist.

Okay that might be taking it a little far. But forgive me for my dramatization. I'm just a little torn up over the fact that I'VE LOST AND/OR CANNOT FIND MY FRICKIN PAINTBRUSHES!

I wrote the letters on the canvases today. It looks wonderful. The image in my head is nothing short of excellence. I can't wait to start painting! I get out the paints. And then I go to the craft box, where all essential painting items have always been stored, and I am unable to locate the brushes. I really believe the BrushBurglar came in here and swiped them to dash my hopes of pretty-pink-and-brown-baby-girl-little-miss-priss-ooooh-and-ahhh-CANVAS-PAINTING!

Okay stop right there. Perhaps something in the above paragraph is not accurate. And if you're thinking it's that the BrushBurglar did not steal the brushes, then YOU'RE WRONG, because he did. He exists. Kind of like the HamBurglar from McDonald's circa 1989. Side note: Where did all those characters go? Did Ronald take 'em out back and beat 'em because they were getting attention, too? And why can't I recall the names of any other characters? I digress. Focus. In the above paragraph I may have mentioned that all craft items are always kept in the designated craft item location. And that is very true. Except for when I throw them down wherever I please and pledge to put them away later.

Said brushes could be at my parents' house, my bro and SNL and Sweet's house, or hiding in any unseen location around my house.

If the BrushBurgler didn't get them then I bet the big purple character from McDonald's took them. I think his name was McPaintbrush McHidey.

Sports and Outdoors

I had a date on Friday night. With my dad. I love my dad for lots of reasons. He's a lot like me and we can talk about pretty much everything. He makes me laugh harder than most people can. I get most of my good and bad qualities from him. Plus, he's just plain fun.

Our date consisted of going to eat sushi and then to Academy. Because everyone likes to vomit raw fish next to new kayaks.

Before we went to eat dinner, I was at my parents' house and my dad showed me his new "tennis shoes" and sought my approval. I quickly cast disdain and scoffing at the direction of my father for two reasons: 1. for still using the term "tennis shoes." He does not play tennis and they are not shoes to be worn during the sport of tennis. They are "running shoes." Dad is not a runner, however these are aptly advertised as running shoes in the store. We will now refer to them as running shoes and no longer as tennis shoes. Case closed. 2. they were ugly. My dad has an affinity for picking the whitest, most clinical looking shoes that Academy has to offer. Perhaps even more sad is the fact that Nike made such an atrocious looking pair of footwear. (See, I'm casting disdain and scoffing.)

Back to the completely irrelevant part of the story. Dad shows me the shoes and goes into a long diatribe providing me with FAR too much information detailing the trip in which he purchased said "tennis shoes." He held the Academy bag, shoes, and reciept in his hands and asked me, "If I take all this back to a different Academy, will they let me exchange the shoes?" I was like, "Hi. I'm Earth and you've been here for 58 years. Have we met?" YES YOU CAN EXCHANGE THE DADGUM SHOES! That is, in fact, the precise way to go about making an exchange in a store. I don't understand why men lack rational thinking when it comes to shopping.

I should have known the Academy trip was going to be a fiasco from my father's experience with shoe shopping. Once, he needed a new pair of "tennis shoes" in the 80s and so he blindly walked into a place called 'Sneakers' only to find out that it was an establishment promoting the nakedness of women and not the purchasing of new "tennis shoes." Oops.

Academy Sports and Outdoors, however, promotes all things sporty and outdoorsy (clearly) and it is therefore one of my father's favorite stores. He said that he could live there if they served food. Shortly, he'll be moving into Bass Pro Shops because they conveniently have a restaraunt! We go to Academy and mosey into the shoe section. My dad's phone rings, he answers in the LOUDEST VOICE POSSIBLE and tells the other person on the line (my mom), "I'M AT ACADEMY WITH DAUGHTER. SHE'S HELPING ME GET NEW SHOES. WE JUST HAD SUSHI. NO, I DIDN'T CALL HER! SHE CALLED ME! I AM LEAVING HER ALONE! I PROMISE I'M NOT SMOTHERING HER..." Smother....smother...smother.

After I died a quick and embarassing death, I revive in the shoe section where I pick a pair out, he tried them on, and decides they are for him. The first pair. Now tell me, how hard was that with a woman's help? So simple. He looks at me with a gleam in his eye and says, "Do you think they have Levi's here?" And then I died of embarassment once again. No one calls them 'Levi's.' Or 'denims.' Most people say 'jeans.' But not my father. No sir. He wants to "go look for the Levi's!"

We get to the jean section and he says to the woman who is hanging some clothes on the rack, "Hey Academy girl..." and I don't remember what he said next because he just called the kind woman with a job "Academy girl." Who does that? Then he looked at the wall of "Levi's" and said, "We've reached the motherload." Dad went straight for the bright blue 80s wash in the size he needed, got two pair, and announced, "Okay, let's go!" I pushed aside my desire to call him deranged and proceeded to seize the ugly jeans in exchange for cooler colors. He grudgingly went into the dressing room, after handing me his cell phone saying, "Here, hold Charlie." The trip to Academy was a success because I managed to convince him that the vintage colors were more attractive than 1986-color denim. My dad is now the epitome of cool in Levi's jeans. Not hard to accomplish when one is wearing Levi's brand jeans. No disrespect.

As we are driving home, my dad busts out with, "Daughter. Would you ever consider living with a boy before getting married?" I knitted my eyebrows and think, 'What the...?" but decide to humor him. I really wanted to be a smart-ace and tell him that I'd consider it but I'd never do it. But since I feel Father was asking more out of fear for his 27-year-old daughter, I decided not to send him into cardiac arrest and I answered with a firm "no." Furthermore, my personal opinion is that it freaks me out beyond belief to actually open myself up enough live with a male. I think I would more than consider living with a boy and might do it as long as the boy retained his previous residence (even if the previous residence was in name only). Because let's be honest...it happens. However, I might want said boy to retain his own residence after marriage so he can go live there when I wig out because that's just how I get about committment. But Father didn't need all these details and might start to shake when I begin to pour my soul out to him about all my relationship issues.

I bypassed said issues and decided I could be a mature adult and said, "Why do you ask, Dad?" I still don't know what made him ask because he began rambling about "sexual relationships" and "I'm more conservative" and "this day and age." I had an odd mixture of feelings about where this converstaion could lead and then it was all a blur and I have since blocked most of it from my permanent memory. I decided we could end the topic and said, "By the way, you're about twelve years too late with all of this." He hung his head and admitted that he was never good at knowing what to say about it all and I just laughed at my father's efforts.

And that's why I love him and why he'll always be cool in my eyes. Because he says things like, "Hey Academy girl..." and has the sexual relationship conversation well past the appropriate age. But I'll think twice about saying yes the next time he asks me on a date.

Will Power I Have None

Against warnings from the Surgeon General, I did something so idiotic today. I went grocery shopping on an empty stomach one week before my "visitor".

I can hear you groan and say, "Ohhhhh noooooooo." Oh yes.

My typical grocery list is well under one hundred dollars. I purchase items such as fat free turkey slices, Light Done Right yogurt, bags of spinach, fat free organic milk, light string cheese, ground turkey and the like.

I ate lunch today at 10:30 am and by 3:45pm, I was ready for dinner. But instead of having a healthy snack, I hopped over to the grocery store. I purchased only some of the aforementioned heart- and figure-friendly items. I bumped up the HEB bill with goodies such as a large bag of peanut M&Ms, two cans of Pringles, Stove Top Stuffing, Frosted Hot Fudge Pop-Tarts (yes, they actually make those), spinach dip, and pudding to make two more batches of Friendship Bread.

The only thing I'll be having a friendship with is my fat jeans.