MY POEM

Roses are Red
Violets are Purple

So stop saying they're Blue, dummies.

May 19, 2009

Hi family. So...how's everybody? What about May? It's just so busy. Like December, only no presents for KellBell. Remember when Aunt Honey kept sending us recipes? That was fun. And then all of a sudden, the magic was gone. What did we do to f- it up this time? I'm trying to write Tiki Bear's poem for the 1st birthday. I need to be with her and get some inspiration! I went to the Zoo today with the 1st graders of Lakeside Elementary - sweet. Max is cute. Fresh, but cute. So I signed a contract today for a grown-up job. It feels good to do something adult with my brain. This is so boring. What is wrong with me? It's because I started working out! I should stop. It's making me tired and boring. Too bad dogs have such bad breath. Ugh. So gross. I need to sign Noah up for driver's ed! What? He was just born! And Bailey is going to high school!? When did all of this happen? David leaves tomorrow for Peru with his friends from college. I should have a party while he's gone - trash the place! How about Memorial Day? See you then, bloggers.

MY LAME FAMILY

roses are red

violets are blue

my family is lame

cuz they have daddy issue...s.

Things I Cannot Believe

That I'm 32 today.

That I have a mortgage.

That I only drink wine a couple of times a month and cannot hold my liquor.

That I used to think moving was exciting...now the thought is exhausting.

What a slut I used to be and didn't think I was, but have new standards now cuz I have daughters...and I was.

Bailey had a cake o hunks for her bday...wheres my cake o hunks?!

How excited I am to have gotten Twilight as my birthday present.  Did I mention that I'm 32?

That I was 31 last year. 

None of my siblings want to write on this WICKED AWESOME sib site. 

That Tommy can pick such heavy items up with his toes.

I ever thought weighing 133 meant I was fat, because I just got down to 133 and I'm pretty sure I'm the cats meow. 

How hard it is to meet friends when you are a mom and how much like dating it is.

That I ever turned 30.

How cliche' my sex life is. 

There are two little girls in this world who think of me the way I used to think of my mom.

That my ringer was off and I missed THREE birthday calls!! s*&$!

That my husband likes me.

That I lived through my college years.

That I will have to live through two girls in high school and college.  And be the boss of them.

That Tracy wants me to go shopping for her work clothes, for my birthday.  

That Kim used to own a firebird. 

How long I go without contact with dad.

That there are people who DON'T watch The Young and the Restless.

That my 22nd birthday was TEN years ago.  And I survived that night.

How important TV has become to me.

Kelly and I are always thinking the same thing when we watch something. 

That 30 year old flashbacks of Catherine Chancellor show her to be in her late 60s AT LEAST.

How much I miss my texas family.

That I feel the same on the inside today as I did when I turned 8.

That my glory days are gone.  Yeah, they'll pass you by.  Glory days...in the blink of a young girls eye.

SugarBear-#5

I am sitting in a roomful of strangers.  Some are sleeping, some reading, some watching the muted television morning news program-desperately trying to understand.  Other people in this room are talking nervously to their neighbor, whom they met minutes earlier, about death and taxes.  Excluding none, everyone in this room is grumpy.  Well...excluding one. 

This is the first day in 2 1/2 years that I went to bed early the night before in anticipation of the day to follow.  I sprang from the mattress at 6:20 am-nearly an hour after my eyes opened. I washed, brushed, put on make-up, clipped and filed, dressed.  I fed my 2 year old.  I was almost chipper to my husband.  I kissed them both good-bye.  I drove to D&D and bought a 1/2 DC/C/O-my first in 5 months.  I listened to morning radio and parked at the designated lot, six blocks away from my destination.  I skipped in 12 degrees down the long blocks, clutching my hot coffee.  The excitement of being in the world, contributing to society once again, almost too much for me to bear.

Now at the door, the guards take my cellphone.  Most of the people grumble.  I welcome the freedom this simple act offers.  I walk past hourdes of poeple being corralled into their appropriate lines. 

A woman behind the glass asks my profession.  Do I tell it to her straight?  Should I tell her the old fashioned term or the one that is supposed to sound more modern and p.c?  I realize that I am taking too long to answer.  The plumber and teacher behind me shift their weight and sigh.  The clerk glances self-consciously at my gut.  

"Baby Maker?"  I answer, playfully.    

"Are you saying you stay at home?  Or are you being funny?"  She asks dryly.  

I am out in the world before 8:45 a.m.  I have coffee.  I am wearing lipstick.  I can do this.  I nod self-consciously.  She validates my parking.

I sit in a comfortable empty row.   I begin to unload the carefully packed bag, filled with reminders that I once enjoyed art, pop culture, politics and my own thoughts.  My bag.  Packed with things I need, things I want to occupy my time.  

I glance at the clock on the wall.  So early.  So much more time to read grown-up books and listen to real music. So much more time to be an adult, out in the world.  I wonder how fast the time will fly.  My eyes scan the room and unintentionally make eye contact with a man sitting below the clock.  He is fairly handsome, trendy, mid-twenties (go me) and is totally checking me out.  Wait, maybe he is looking at someone else...I glance around briefly.  Nope.  Just me.  I look back at him after a very hard-to-get 30 seconds.  He is still casually looking over here.  Yup, I still got it, for the moment.  The fetus bares down angrily on my sensitive bladder.  I grind my teeth against the sensations, careful not to yet break the illusion that I am a single twenty-something, who is SO annoyed to have to come here today and waist time on this b.s.  Reluctantly, I rise from my plastic chair.  It creaks, loudly in this our silent environment.  everyone turns to look.  Including my boyfriend.  My movement is slow and steady as I concentrate on stability.  He isn't looking anymore.  But not to worry, the rest of the room is, and they are getting a great view of my  undies in Wedgyville underneath my oh-so-too-tight-maternity- yoga pants.

Somehow we are shuffled back into the cold, to another building...another room.  More people sitting in chairs.  They are taking up all the good seats.  And they aren't one of us.  They weren't there for role call or the orientation reminders.  We squeeze in between them pulling our bags of reading materials and electronics onto our laps.  This isn't what I signed up for.  This was going to be "me" time.  

I pull out the incredibly pretentious novel that I've been waiting to read for months and pick up on page 8, where I have picked up so many times before.  Suddenly, the woman next to me strikes up a friendly conversation with the woman next to her.  Their voices are not easily ignored.  A man nearby is called and exits.  A little elbow room.  The women giggle at an amusing anticdote about the untidiness of husbands, their voices gaining more confidence in the familiarity of their new best-friendship.  A very old man comes to fill my void.  He smells like cigarettes and bacon.  Page 8 continues.   The women begin a marathon interchange about their pets.  Each and every malady, caper and human-like action boisterously discussed.  Did that woman just say something about kissing her dog on the mouth?  Gag.  A hearty guffaw...PAGE 8.  I acrimoniously look around the room.  Have middle-aged women no censor to what they say aloud when they meet up with one of their own.  Will I be one of these women someday?  Every person in the room desperately grasps at personal space while the women gab.   

I am beginning to miss her.  What degree of kink is her hair at right now?

The women gab.  New topic: Brangelina.

I put my book away.  I feel as if I'm beginning to boil over.  I move to another row.  I can still hear the faint laughs of from the animal molesting ex-cheerleaders.

A flash runs through my mind.  It is clean in this place, colorful and vacant of the smell of strangers.  I suddenly long for the oasis that is my kitchen.   I feel as if it has been years since I made Mickey Mouse shaped grilled cheeses while checking email and making "to do" lists.   

A new succubus behind me begins to tell her instant bff about a tv show she watched last night.  She discusses every single interchange between the characters on the show.  They gab about the difficulty of understanding some of the jokes but they adore the physical comedy. Then they delve deep into "that strange new mystery suspense show that is just so confusing." They both watch it every week but have no idea what it is about.  They analyse last night's surprise ending through what seems like a bullhorn.  I make a mental note to erase my Tivo'd recording of Lost.

The clock above my ex reads 12:23.  God will this day ever end.  Will I ever get to go home??  

They call my name in a series of five.  I go to the front.  I watch the interviewers ask the two before me a series of questions.  I focus on remembering who I am.  I need to answer quickly enough, so as not to sound like I'm lying, or just an idiot.  I haven't really had to explain who I am to anyone in a long time.  My identity is blurred. 

"Is Suhy your maiden name?"

"Yes."

"Do you know any of the following people...?"

"No."

"Have you ever been divorced?"

"No."

"What is your occupation?"

"Hooo...Stt...Unemployed."

"What is your husband's occupation?"

"Lobbyist."

"You may go."

As I journey back to my car in the freezing cold, rejected, harrassed by the homeless and laughed at by the teens whose parents should really be made aware of the fact they are not in school and I really wish I could call and tell them myself, I wonder witch of those people will be called to sit on juries today.  They decide the fate of allegged criminals.   Will my under the clock ex-boyfriend sentence a man to prison?  Will the cheerleaders get sequestered like OJs jurers?  Will the bacon sway eleven jurers to change their votes to innocent, Twelve Angry Men style?  Either way, I am going home.  And I can't wait. 

Going to a Judge Judy show, now THAT would be a good time.

I found the above sample in an old spiral I took out for Willow.  It was from jury duty,  just a year ago.   

VACASH

Today is the first day of my February break from school!! Why don't they call it VACATION?

I am on cloud nine-- as I load up three bookbags full of student work to grade, lessons to plan, reading plans to think through and fill in...

I am on cloud nine-- as I pick up my children from three different locations around the state and drive to Friendly's(the kid-magnet restaurant that adults HATE)...

I am on cloud nine-- as I organize my calendar with my week ahead: doctor visits, time with those I never see, SEX (no more excuses there), play-dates, and time PLAYING with my kids(not just feeding, soothing, bathing, guiding (aka-yelling) and rocking)...

They don't call it vacation because it is not vacation. It is simply bait for all those confused college kids who don't know what to do with their lives. "Be a teacher- You get so many vacations!!" What a joke.

Am I glad to be on February break? Yes. But come on people. Let's call a spade a spade...it is NOT a vacation. Stop lying to people about all the "time off" teachers have. It is not time off. It is simply time to work at home to catch up on all the shit a teacher cannot get to because they are busy trying to TEACH!

I love being a teacher but why did I think that I was going to have a normal job with good hours? Why can't I be on a beautiful island, looking at the vast, mysterious ocean, holding a bucket in my underwear?
Signed,
CaliFORnia 4
PS. The reason you are fond of sharp pencils is because you are a teacher!!

#2 - Kell-Bell

well.....at least i'm trying. i am very fond of paper and pencils. Really sharp pencils. And they have to be long. Once I've sharpened an inch off, chances are I will throw it in the family pencil cup. Because by then the ratio of lead to eraser is too uneven and I keep worrying that I'm going to run out of eraser, which distracts me from the writing, etc. etc. It just took me one and a half hours to find, crop, and add my photo to this blog. And I don't even see it on here. Computers are so confusing to me and I miss old fashioned photo albums. The kind you can hold and flip through. I have to go clean something, but I will be back. Thanks Heather, for making our blog dream come true. Thank God we're not "Little House On The Prairie" or we'd never get to communicate after you and "Mary" moved to another frontier. That whole Pony Express thing bites. But the worst is....what did they do before the Pony Express?