Oh my darling

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, while on a random late Sunday morning run, a dog bounded out of nowhere and tackled me.  At first it scared me and I screamed like a girl when she knocked me down.  But all she wanted to do was lick my face and play with me.

Poor pup.  She didn't have a collar.  Her ribs were showing.  Her skin looked like a mangy mess.  She had scabby sores on her shoulders from some type of injury.  She was just a mess.

I got up to begin running again not sure what to do about the dog.  Where were her owners?  Where had she come from?  Why was she following me?

We named her my most expensive run ever Clementine.

For the record, the Supreme Leader is displeased.  But Clementine is a smart girl and gives the little tyrant a fairly wide berth except when she periodically pounces on her just to drive her ape crap crazy.

Last night, during the middle of the night, Clementine used her nose to slide the latch from her kennel open then stealthily opened the door.  She quietly creeped across the floor and slowly approached the foot of the bed.  She put her nose under the comforter and calmly climbed up into the bed.

As she lay curled up near our feet, I reached down to pet her.  All the while my mind was wildly racing.  Do I let her stay in the bed?  Will Mr. Strong notice and if not can I just sleep on and ignore her presence?  Will I lose my status as alpha dog bitch trainer if I let her stay under the covers?

Suddenly, Mr. Strong rolled over and asked, "Are you ok?"

Not being able to contrive a story on the spot, I blurted out, "Clementine is in the bed with us."

Very calmly, he said, "Honey, that is my leg you are petting."

Instantly, I realized I had been dreaming.  The poor man probably thought I was trying to be amorous.  I laughed and then realizing I didn't have a dog to move, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Never let a good puddle go to waste

One of the advantages to living in the south during the winter is that you still get to wear your summer clothes never know what the weather will be like.  It is never very cold for very long.  After two days of rain, the puddles were beckoning us to notice them.

When the girl stated that she had never jumped in a puddle, I thought evil thoughts about her mean aunt we set out to change that.

She was giddy.  She was full of glee.  She was muddy!

I hope this will be a happy memory that she will always have.

Has it really been two years?

A lot has changed since the last time I wrote here two years ago.  A lot has changed and much has stayed the same.  

I'm still happily married to Mr. Strong.  In fact, we just celebrated our 9th anniversary.  I love that man and I love that he puts up with crazy me.  

I'm still running.  In fact, I've run two marathons.  And that is all the proof you need to know that I am completely unstable and should not be left alone for extended periods of time.  I have the sticker on my car but stick a fork in me I'm done.  After losing four FREAKING four toenails because of bruising, I can safely say that the half marathon is my upper limit now.  I'm comfortable with that.  Running 26.2 really is a bat crap crazy idea.

Miss Poopy is still peeing on the floor as adorable as ever.  She is getting a little grayer and a little fatter but that doesn't stop her from barking at birds and airplanes.

I still love photography and I am on my third year of posting a picture every day.  It helps with my memory and it keeps me in the process of learning.  Except when I get lazy and just post a picture of my dinner or of a random flower in the yard.

But what is different is that I am no longer a principal of an elementary school.  Yep.  That is right.  I met with the new superintendent and I asked to be moved back to assistant principal.  I had simply had enough of the crap from a few board members and some of the faculty.  I've been moved to a new school and I had a great year this past year.  The thought of moving all the way back to the classroom has been entertained.  I still get entertained by some crazy interesting parents but the stress is so much better.  I've even been carded whilst buying wine this past year.  Possibly that guy was slow but I will still chalk it up as looking younger and less haggard.

Three out of four kids have graduated from college.  And the six foot tall baby youngest one will be a senior in college.  We now/will soon have our kids living all over the place -- New York, NY; New Haven, CT, Atlanta, GA and LONDON.  We are extremely proud and we have had to work hard to not bring all their accomplishments into every conversation.  Plus, it makes me think that we didn't totally screw them up.  And because Mr. Strong and I are gluttons for punishment because who needs down time, we are soon going to be foster parents to an 8 year old girl from my school.  I always did say I wanted to bring some of them home.  She is adorable and says many funny things on her visits.  I think she'll be good for us.  We hope to not increase her need for therapy.

I've not been writing like I love.  I do keep a journal with embarrassing parts for my children to have to read upon my demise and I write a little with each picture I post but I've missed real writing ha! as if this is real writing... just humor me.  I'm setting a goal to increase the number of hours in each day get back to the writing I've missed.  I'm trying.

Finally

It was a hot June afternoon. The gnats dove in and around our faces promising to become a part of our very breath. The sun shone down while the small gathering of people closed in to congregate around us.

"Love is patient. Love is kind..." were the words being uttered by our friend, the plumber who was also a rabbi.

As I gazed into my soon-to-be husband's eyes, noticing the glistening of tears fringed on the edge of his lashes, I was caught up in the magnitude of the moment. Sure, we'd been together for nine and half years. It had become a joke to some of our friends and family who liked to predict just when we would get married.

Finally.

That was the word in my head. And the description used in our invitation.

We quickly repeated our vows, my husband never looking away from me, never suspending his smile.

And it was that smile and the way he gazed at me that locked me into the moment. I don't remember the specific vows and I don't remember who was standing in particular places all around us.

I only remember who was standing before me.

And it was our moment. Finally.

Irony

When I was 14 years old, my mother, sister and I went to spend a couple of weeks in Denver, Colorado with my aunt, uncle and two cousins. We absolutely loved the sights and sounds of the Great Rocky Mountains and enjoyed eating at many of the restaurants the locale had to offer. Eating out probably doesn't seem like a big deal but when you are being raised by a mother and step-father who prided themselves on the spices they used, salt AND pepper, getting to eat in places that served food that had FLAVOR was a huge deal.

The Yum Yum Tree had a name that appealed to mine and my sister's 14 and 13 year-old selves. Plus, we'd seen the commercials about how "every type of cuisine could be found under one roof for the low, low price of..." I don't remember the cost but according the adults, it was expensive. At least by 1980 standards. Still, we wanted to go.

Persistence is something both my sister and I pride ourselves on and we eventually wore down the adults. We were headed to the Yum Yum Tree! When we got there, it was like an amusement park of food. Italian food. Mexican food. Chinese food. Japanese food (which my mother quickly forbade us to go to once she saw the sushi). German food. British food. Basically, you think of the type of food and it was there. I was in gastrointestinal heaven!

As I perused each of the nationalities and their offerings I heard my mother warning me to not do to much. "All that funny stuff will hurt your stomach," she promised.

I ate and I ate and I ate - savoring each morsel of food with flavor. There were delicacies I had never dreamed of and it all went down filling me to the point of uncomfortable. My mother, being ever so cautious, stuck with tried and true offerings proclaiming some of them as not good. "Ew. This spaghetti sauce is so garlicky," she would say as she pushed her plate away.

After we'd eaten more than our fill, we all went into the connecting mall (yeah, it was one of those types of restaurants attracting mall rats) so that we could walk around with our extended guts. It was in the middle of one of those big department stores that my mother loves so much when she suddenly grabbed her stomach and grimaced. Truthfully, I didn't think much of it at the time as my sweet mother was and is rather delicate and was and is often complaining of some ache or pain.

All of a sudden, my mother's face went pale and she mummered with clenched teeth, "We need to find a bathroom now!"

We quickly dashed about the department store finally locating a bathroom in the back corner, near the men's department. But it was too late. She'd already shit her pants.

My mother had shit her pants!

My sister and I, being the good girls we were, fell apart laughing. I realize that a bit of sympathy might have gone a long way but really... my mother shit her pants! It was hilarious!

After we finally were able to calm down and wipe our tears away, my mother handed us her credit card from under the bathroom stall.

"Go buy me some new underwear! Right now!" It was obvious that mom was not amused.

My sister and I walked around the big department store finally locating the women's unmentionable section. After browsing through the choices, we found a pair of panties with meatballs on them. Seriously. Meatballs. And. We. Had. To. Get. Them.

We took the underwear to the clerk who gave us funny looks as we paid for the goods with our mother's credit card. We were falling all over ourselves laughing as we made our way back to the bathroom where my mother was still under lockdown with her shitty britches. When she saw the underwear we chose, she started to laugh.

Funny how playing it safe was the crappy way to go that night.

The Teacher's Daughter

Currently, I am participating in a local group of the National Writing Project. We have intense classes that meet for the entire month of June. One of the class requirements was to write a "memoir" about something that happened to you in your life. For whatever reason, this was the story I pulled from my rear. I really would like some honest feedback on what needs to be edited, changed, deleted, etc.

I hope you are all having a great summer!

Being the child of an educator hasn’t always been easy. In fact, at times, it has downright stunk. The opportunity to tell my side of the story was rarely given and once my teacher contacted my mother to tell her of my shortcomings, I was in for some serious punishments. For instance, my mother was not humored when I made my first F in Science, though I had a fabulous plan to make that F so that I could get out of the gifted class and escape the teacher who had no patience with me and my energy level. My mother was not amused and shut me in my room as I desperately tried to get her to see my way of thinking.

Basically, my version of the events never mattered when I got into trouble with a teacher. Except for one time.

When I started the eighth grade at the Junior High as an unconfident and awkward thirteen year old dealing with braces and random acne outbreaks who had recently lost her father to cancer, I didn’t have the skills or emotional maturity yet under my belt to deal with the likes of Mrs. B. Mrs. B was a mammoth of a lady who was quick with a frown and slow to move across the room to help a floundering student. From the moment I walked in the door of her math class, I was suddenly aware of being on her radar, much like a duck in a hunter’s sight. I had heard the stories of poor souls who would wither under her tutelage in that last class on the left at the end of the hall.

Within days, I would learn that I could do nothing right. When called upon, she would interrupt me and tell me that I “had better start paying attention” because she was sick of students like me who didn’t take school seriously. The more these comments were made, the more I retreated and the less my mind focused on what she was teaching. Suddenly, I found myself feeling lost and helpless as to what to do to make the situation better. At the same time, I was falling hopelessly behind in the math material being shoved our way.

Talking to my mother was out of the question. The loss of my father combined with her old-school support of ALL teachers made it a rough emotional time. Add in my teenage angst and it was a recipe for disaster. It probably didn’t help that I had a history of being a bit of a challenge in the classroom.

Then came that fateful Wednesday afternoon. Math was the last class of the day and I dreaded it from the moment I awoke each day. On that particular day, Mrs. B called me to the board to work out a problem that seemed particularly vexing. When I couldn’t do it, she chastised me and had me continue to stand there for the remainder of the period. Fighting tears, I resolved to not cry. I simply faced the board with my hands in fists blinking back the tears that promised to betray me.

As the bell rang, I was told to stay there at the board because she was keeping me after school for detention. She muttered something about talking with my mother about my attitude, work ethic and how I “didn’t need to be smoking ‘mary-jew-anna’.” The panic of the impending consequences from my mother made me feel nauseous as I felt my face turning red. Wanting to say something... anything... but feeling frozen in time, I stood there waiting for something to happen.

Time passed slowly as Mrs. B sat at her table grading papers. Her flabby flesh spilled over the sides of her chair, as I listened to the scratch of pen on the paper as she vehemently attacked student work with a red pen in her paw. I worried what my mother would think when I wasn’t standing in front of the school with my sister for her to pick us up. After what felt like a life time of standing at the board, I heard my mother’s voice and I shrank even further into myself ashamed of the situation I was in. The teacher sent me to the hall so that she could talk to my mother about my issues.

While I couldn’t hear what the teacher had to say to my mother, I could hear my mother. And she was on my team! I don’t know how she knew that I was so beaten down. Maybe it was a mother’s intuition or maybe she’d heard some of the same rumors I’d heard before gracing the doors of Mrs. B’s classroom. She was furious and the mama bear in her came out with a vengeance. “As a teacher, you should know better than to falsely accuse a child” along with “you have no business teaching not only my child but any children” were harshly spat at Mrs. B. My heart raced as this verbal exchange escalated to a stormy frenzy.

Suddenly, the door slung open as my mother grabbed my arm and began marching to the office, feet clomping loudly on the tile floor. Her eyes were blazing as she demanded that I be removed from Mrs. B’s class. The relief that overcame me caused those tears to come flowing out. As I stood there hiccuping back my sobs and listening to my mother tell the principal that he could just un-enroll me from school because I wouldn’t be back, I never loved my mother more than I did at that moment. It would be the instant when I knew my mother would stand up for me when it mattered most. I was, after all, her daughter.

He might need to worry about his gene pool

This past school year, the husband and I've learned to live with an empty nest. Having four kids in college is crazy exciting as we have no money get to live vicariously through their stories.

Somehow, I thought I'd worry less, sleep more, and regain some of the brain cells I fried in the whole mothering experiment. I couldn't have been further from the truth.

A few weeks ago, in an attempt to gain a nomination for mother of the year I randomly decided to order some surprises for my son who is living in a snow bound hell Connecticut.

Here is a reenactment of the conversation I had with myself whilst trying to determine what to order:

"Let's see.... What would be a good surprise for a strapping young man relegated to indoor activities such as reading? Hmmmm... Some Five Hour Energy might be good. I'll order a case... Oh, and some more long underwear since he is probably wearing dirty duds.... You know, over the holidays, he really seemed to like sweets... Maybe I'll get him some animal crackers..."

In hindsight, the fact that the animal crackers were called Barking Dog Animal Crackers should have been a clue to me. Yep. I sent my son dog treats as a surprise.

And, boy oh boy, was he surprised!

No wonder I never get nominated for mother of the year.

Pfffssht!

A good friend of mine has recently started running.  She has made a lot of progress in a short amount of time and I'm really proud of her!  On several of our morning meetings at a local track, she has talked about a Boot Camp exercise class that she has participated in.  
Being a glutton for punishment up for a challenge, I decided I’d join her to see what this class was all about.  Besides, I need to work on something besides obsessively running.
I picked out my clothes and set my alarm for 4:45 a.m. so I could be at the gym in time for the 5:15 a.m. class.  And this is grounds for commitment to an insane asylum because I’m on my summer break.
As usual, I woke up way before the alarm.
After arriving at the gym (and signing all the paperwork to try out the gym as a guest), we headed down to the gallows gym only to be informed that the teacher had a sick child and the class was cancelled. 
Well, pfffshht!
So, we tried a quick round of basketball.  It was brutal reminder of why I was the team benchwarmer.
I think I’ll have Nutella for breakfast now.

How can I start a new project when I currently have 47 projects going on?

Earlier this week, I received a Kindle (for those of you who don’t know, a Kindle is a small electronic device that can hold thousands of books and magazines in it [or is it on it] and you really should get out more often) and I promptly paid to download five books and then downloaded 15 additional free books.
In my pre-Kindle days, I had a book by the bed, a book by my chair in the den, a book on my desk at work, and a book in my bag that I gave a ride from work to home and back again each day.  I can read all these books and not get them confused.  This is not to impress you but just a feeble attempt to explain how my sick little twisted mind works.
Now I have currently have 20 books at my fingertips and I am like a crack addict working up a good fix.  So far, I’ve read a chapter of Sherlock Holmes, two pages of Anna Karenina, a passage or two of Frankenstein, four chapters of Born to Run, six recipes in Not Your Mother’s Slow Cooker Recipes, almost the first chapter of The Happiness Project, and the first two chapters of Unclutter Your Life in One Week.  My hand shakes as I convince myself not to open up another book.
Last night, I woke up during the night wondering where the heck I last stored the slow cooker, pondering how I could go about arranging my own happiness project, worrying if I purged enough from my closet yesterday after being inspired to rid my life of clutter, contemplating taking a run without shoes (not really) and thinking about ways I can convince my husband that we must have a pet praying mantis (that last one is random and actually wasn’t an idea presented in any of the books).
Today, I’ve pledged to only read from one book on the Kindle and I’m struggling with which one.  My head feels like it could explode.  I don’t understand why this many choices gets to me because I have far more options on my book shelf.  Is it because I am inherently lazy and once there is a book in my hand, I am not so inspired to get up and look for another?  Is there something hypnotic about turning the pages of an actual book?
It is possible I’ll need an intervention…

Has it really been that long?

My last post was over a month ago. Apparently, I'm an all or nothing kind of girl when it comes to blogging here. I've still been taking posting a picture a day over on the other blog (http://mundaneandmagical.blogspot.com/) but I've all but turned my back on this blog.

Is it over between us? And by us, I mean this blog and me.

I still have a lot of ideas that swirl in my head keeping me awake at night.

I think I just needed to simplify my life. The month of May was an emotional one: both boys turned a year older (and is it really possible for me to be the mother of a 20 year old and an 18 year old?); we had tile taken up and tile put down in our den and kitchen; my oldest son moved out; my youngest son graduated from high school; it was another typical can't catch your breath end of the school year; some jobs were lost...

Still, I miss this place. I miss my friends.

Now would be a good time for me to learn some moderation. When it comes to blogging, that is.

Let’s just play in the dirt again

As I peeked into the quiet room, I gazed upon the sleeping boy. The slight snore from the persistent allergies signaled that deep sleep – the kind of sleep where dreams of animals talking and people visiting from other worlds comes.
How I wanted to curl him up into my arms and snuggle one more time in the rocking chair, tucking my nose into that place on his neck where the sweet smell of boyhood lingers.
Except that boy is now a man.
“Turning twenty kind of sucks,” he told me earlier this week. “It sounds old and yet you are still too young to legally drink away your sorrows.”
I didn’t focus on his use of that word “legally.” He is, after all, an independent college student who is “legally” of age to die for his county.
How can it be that twenty years has passed since his grand entrance into the world? It seems like just the other day he was clamoring for a bottle, climbing onto furniture, begging to play outside, sneaking into the bed in the middle of the night.
The hardest part about becoming a mother is being needed so much.
Ironically, the hardest part about watching your child turn into an adult is not being needed.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Happy! The past twenty years have been the best twenty years of my life.

Conflictions

Excitement.  Amazement.  Overwhelmed.  Anxiety.
These are just a few of the emotions I’ve entertained this past week since we found out my son got accepted into an Ivy League school. 
When he first mentioned his desire to apply, I encouraged him.  What was I thinking?!  We don’t live any where near these schools!  While I knew he was bright and motivated, I knew it would be hard for him to get in.  In fact, I really didn’t think it would happen.  Prior to this week, we were working to decide between a couple of schools in Georgia where we live, for crying out loud. 
Of the five Ivy Leagues he applied to, he was wait listed for two, turned down for two, and accepted to one.
Now that one school has become the one.
Suddenly, I’m having to pull my head out of the sand making flight and hotel arrangements to some city I’ve never visited.  Heck, I haven’t even been to that state.
Now that the reality is settling in, I’ve been grappling with nearness of my impending empty nest.  Tears fighting for a chance to surface and a heaviness in my chest are ever present.
I’m not looking for pity.  Being accepted to an Ivy League school is the kind of stuff dreams are made of.  I’m proud of my son and I’m proud of myself for encouraging him to do his best.  Being a single mother wasn’t easy and I worried that I didn’t or couldn’t do enough.  Looking back, I think his independence thrived as a result.  So, hover mothers, write that lesson down for the books.
So, how did this happen so fast?  Is he going to be okay so far away from me?
As I gazed up to the sky, I noticed a young hawk coasting on the breeze.  Not far behind him was a larger hawk, presumably his mother. 
Like that hawk, I know the truth.  He is ready to fly.

Reason 134 Why I Love My Secretaries

Not only do these ladies protect me from intimidating parents make me look good, they have an awesome sense of humor.
Phone Message to Overwhelmed 5th Grade Teacher: “Please call Mr. Lyon.  Your name has been drawn for a prize. 555-555-5555.”
Overwhelmed 5th Grade Teacher: “Is this Jim who called me?  I know Jim Lyon but I don’t recognize this number.”
Secretary #1: “It might be.  Give him a call.  We want to hear what you won!”
Overwhelmed 5th Grade Teacher picks up the phone and dials.
Person on the other end of the phone: “Atlanta Zoo.”
Overwhelmed 5th Grade Teacher with a confused look on her face: “May I speak with Mr. Lyon?”
Person on the other end of the phone (who is probably not amused): [Insert Uncomfortable Pause] “Ma’am.  It is April Fool’s Day.  I think somebody is playing a joke on you.”
The entire office erupted into laughter.
And it appeared that the 5th grade teacher was slightly less overwhelmed when she walked back to her classroom.

When one door closes…

On one hand, I love spring.  After winter’s harsh weather, the warm breezes and the blooming trees and shrubs breathe new life into me.
On the other hand, spring is the season where I wait to hear from the Superintendent’s office as to how many teaching positions my school earns and how many teachers will be moved.  This year is especially tense as the Superintendent has announced that due to budget restraints, positions will be cut. 
Moving teachers to different schools suddenly looks like the good old days.
I’ve never seen education have to face the cuts it is currently facing.  And the governor hasn’t quit cutting.  Nor does he seem to have his priorities in order.
The other day, I had to tell a sweet but ineffective teacher that she wouldn’t have a job next year.  I came home and cried.  While there isn’t room in the classroom for ineffectiveness, it breaks my heart to be the one to shut a door.
But when one door closes, another one opens, right?
I’ve got to believe that everything is going to be okay.  I’ve got to hang on to that thought that one bad event can open a door to a new and better opportunity.
I’ve got to believe that every thing does happen for a reason. 

If I were king of the world, I’d make Tuesday happen a couple of times a week

It is Tuesday, right? The day in the blog world known for randomness, eh?
All is well in our world. Thanks for all the comments and emails. We are slowly getting back to normal. Well, normal as defined by us.

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I got a speeding ticket from the nicest cop this morning. At 4:45 a.m. I was on my way back from the gym when he clocked me going 68 in a 45 mph zone (it was a 4 lane highway with absolutely no traffic… relax). I’m sure I was looking lovely with my sweaty self. I begged asked for a warning but he pointed out his supervisor in the other cop car. At least he knocked the speed down a bit so I wouldn’t get hit with the hefty fines associated with the super speeder law in Georgia. On average, I get one speeding ticket a decade. Typically, I drive like an old lady. And by old lady, obviously, I mean my grandmother. She is one of the original speed racers.

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Speaking of driving, why is it so difficult for some folks to figure out how to use turn signals. And there needs to be a course on the purpose and use of the turn lane. Personally, if I were a cop, I’d focus on those folks for my ticketing fix.

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Life at school has been hell hectic. The superintendent announced that jobs would be lost then decided to keep it a secret wait until after the state test to tell the pink-slipped folks and their principal. Enough already. Just let us know. The not knowing is causing typically kind people to start tattling and making stabbing behind back motions all kinds of anxiety. It hasn’t been pretty.

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I’ve been thinking about ordering a few of these awesome bottle openers. If they were painted gold, they could make some awesome awards for some real winners out there.

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Spring in Georgia is awesome. While it is still cold in the mornings and evenings, I have decided that I am done with winter clothes. I’ve pulled out the spring skirts and dresses. Let’s just say that I am embracing my whiteness.

Suddenly silent

It is never good news when the phone rings in the wee hours of the morning piercing the subconscious, wringing the soul in preparation for the changes to follow.
“I’ve got bad news.”
My husband’s mother has been failing in health over the past years.  A little over a year ago, we moved her into a full-care, assisted living arrangement.  From there, the decline has been like a free-fall.
Each visit, each phone call brought us closer and closer to the inevitable.
“At least, in the end, she knew who we were.”
Memory is a funny thing.  When it fails you, it can keep you in a grand, make-believe world where life is happy and good.  Her reality may have been a fantasy, but at least in her mind, she was happy and content.
“If she’d known she was in the state she was in, she’d have wanted to pass years ago.”
Over the years, I prayed for her comfort and I prayed for her to pass quietly in her sleep.  For several years, she had let go of her role as a mother.  A child-like replica stood in her place.
We will miss you, Mom.  We already have.

Redefining Normal

Last weekend was an amazing weekend. Running (mostly) the half marathon is something that has changed me (sorry to sound superficial). A year ago, I couldn’t run for two three five minutes. When I signed up to the Disney Princess Half Marathon, I didn’t realize how much work and commitment I’d have to put into making that goal a reality.

But I did it!

Plus, I got to meet some amazing people. I’m already planning to sign up for next year’s run.

The morning of the race, I got out of bed before the alarm went rang out. I hadn’t slept much and my stomach was in knots.

Nerves? Why now? I wasn’t aiming to compete against any hard core athletes. I just wanted to finish the 13.1 miles in a somewhat decent time.

I tried to eat breakfast but it just wouldn’t go down. So, I got dressed and went on down to the lobby to meet Krystyn and get on the bus to the line up. It took 20 minutes to find my friend, Page (which is a real miracle as we had no cell phones and it was crowded).

It was COLD. The number of people were incomprehensible. There were thousands and thousands of women there. Thousands willing to get up at two something to go stand in the cold so they could run 13.1 miles.

My muscles began to tense and ache while standing in the cold. Still, the excitement warmed my heart. Finally, the last corral was walked to the start line and we were off… running and cheering each other on.

All in all, things went well during the run. Except that my back and side began hurting. And I started getting winded.

“Obviously, I need to focus on more hills in my training,” I thought. Little did I know.

The entertainment was top-notch and inspired me to keep plugging along though I think someone was out to do us in with those awful gel packets because you can’t spit that crap out!

I was never so excited to see a finish line in my life!

My husband and I spent the day with Page and her husband in Epcot. You could say we ate and drank our way around the world.

By the end of the night, I was hacking and barking the most awful cough. In a fevered haze, I knew I was going down with a real kicker.

Three doctor visits and 9 medicines later, I am happy to announce I’M ALIVE (even if I still have a little bit of a barky cough)!

In a few more days, I’ll be ready to lace up those running shoes, again. For so long, I’ve been trying to feel like a runner. I think I’m almost there.

Faking a snake bite and other bad ideas

I work in an elementary school. It is what I do for giggles and craps. And there are many, many lessons to be learned each day.

1. Don’t use a sharp instrument to make fang marks on your leg then scare the school nurse by claiming the injury to be a snake bite.
2. If you really do want to go with the snake bite routine, be sure to do some research. A bite with fang marks one inch apart could not have been inflicted by a 6 inch snake. And “I don’t remember” isn’t a good answer to what color was the little, tiny snake when it slithered away.
3. Don’t try to fool medical professionals in a Oscar-worthy showdown to get out of school for a few days. The IV and blood work alone make this a bad idea.
4. Don’t bypass the office when at your child’s school and then yell and intimidate your child’s teacher in the hallway in front of other children and adults.
5. After receiving the letter that bans you from your child’s school, don’t call and harass the principal.
6. Don’t kick the teacher after being told to get your hands off your neighbor’s snack.
7. Don’t scream “shut the f- up” in the lunchroom when the last ‘your momma’ joke pisses you off.
8. Don’t call the principal and tell her that your child has a right to be upset and that sometimes a bad word “just slips out.”
9. Don’t complain about a fellow teacher not having patience with a child then turn around and expect someone to feel sorry for you because of *this* particular child. Patience is patience. Grow some.
10. Students should not hand out their *special* vitamin to other students.

For the record, they didn’t teach any of this when I was in college.

I’m thinking about joining the circus

Possibly I’d have a bit more time for myself.  Besides, I seem to already spend a lot of time with clowns.

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We (and by we, I mean me) finally finished filling out all the FAFSA and financial aid paperwork and now I’m a little discouraged.  If all of these *smart* people at these big universities need me to repeat myself and fax copies of information they already have on file, why should I trust them to educate my child? 

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My first half marathon is in 5 days!  I’m so excited I could pee myself!  Here is a picture of the design that is being painted on my t-shirt.

It says, “Cinderella ~ proof that a new pair of shoes can change your life!”  I’m not often a pink girl but I found these fabulous black knee socks with pink polka-dots…  And I had to get them!

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My parents are going to Disney for my half marathon and for some reason, that just cracks me up.  When I was on the basketball team in 8th grade, my mother didn’t go to any of the games.  Though she would have seen that I had mad bench warming skills.

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I am attempting to take a picture every day for 365 days.  So far, there are too many that are a half-a$$ed attempts so good.  You can see my progress here.

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I can’t wait to get to school today so I can hear about the kid with the snake bite.  He was bitten on Sunday but didn’t tell his parents.  Once he got to school, he stopped by the office to have the school nurse take a look.  She freaked calmly called his parents to take him to the doctor ASAP!  More on that developing story later.

Happy Tuesday!

Mother knows best

Several months ago, my mother called me.

Mom: “I’ve ordered something for you and Mr. Strong.  You are going to LOVE it.”

Me: “Cool.  What is it?”

Mom: “It’s a magic bullet.”  OMG!  Why would she do this?  We barely even talked about the birds and the bees when I was growing up… It was more comfortable to ask my friend’s mother to help me buy the monthly necessities.

Me: “Uh… Mom?  Why?”  What do I say?  This is so embarrassing! 

Mom: “Because I knew you’d love it.  And it has all kinds of attachments.”  Holy carp!  I can’t stand the visual of my puritanical mother shopping in one of *those* stores…and attachments?!  What the heck?

Me: “I’m not sure we need one.”  Really, I can’t accept a gift like this from my MOTHER.

Mom: “Your step-dad loves when I get this out because he knows he is getting a treat.”  Agh!  Lalalalalalalalala…

A couple of days later, the mailman brought my new surprise.

 

For some strange reason, I blush every time I make a smoothie.