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.