Mean Jeans

Trying to find a good pair of jeans is one of the hardest tasks that I have put myself through in the past few weeks. I don't know what it is about jeans and why it so hard to find a pair that does exactly what it is supposed to do.

The perfect pair of jeans for me needs to be dark, because Stacy and Clinton from "What Not to Wear" say frequently that dark denim camouflages a wide thigh and I definitely do not need my thighs to look any wider. They also need to have a straight leg, nothing flared and definitely no tapering which is very self-explanatory.

There can be no rhinestones or random buckles and chains. There should be no sign of glitter anywhere, although my second grade little girls make it look so cute!

They need to come up high enough so my "pencil holder" won't show when I bend over, but not too high to make the dreaded muffin top. They need to be long enough to skim over the tops of my shoes, but not too long where they drag on the floor. The pockets need to be normal and a classy stitched design is always welcomed.

They need to make my legs look long and my derriere look small, yet round. They need to go with every shirt in my closet, too.

They can't stretch out too much when I wear them 8 times in a row without a wash. And they need to bounce right back when I do finally break down and do it.

Is this too much to ask of a pair of jeans? The poor sales clerk at the Gap took out 12 pairs of jeans from my dressing room until I finally found a pair that met most of my needs. They were a little long, but following the advice of my dear TV friends, I took them in to my tailor and they are getting altered as I write this.

I wonder if I will ever find the PERFECT pair of jeans right from the rack. I don't wish for world peace; I wish for a lovely pair of jeans for all women to enjoy each time they put them on! Amen!

The dishwasher drives me absolutely nuts! I love it, because it is a temporary place to put my dirty dishes so I don't have to think about them for a couple of days. And when I have rearranged the top and bottom rack to fit as many dishes as possible, it is awfully convenient to put in some Cascade and turn the dial and go to bed.

The next morning when it's time for work, Casey needs his bowl of cereal and toast. I need multiple pieces of tupperware and spoons for my breakfast and lunch. We open the dishwasher, take what we need and move on with our days.

However, getting home after being gone for 12 hours we transport our dirty dishes from lunches and breakfasts and place them in the sink, as the clean dishes are still sitting in the dishwasher. We cook dinner and one of us has the daunting task of doing the dishes.

Casey dislikes taking the dishes out of the dishwasher so much that he will wash all dishes by hand to avoid having to unload. But at some point we NEED to get that thing unloaded and I silently think that I was the last one to do it and Casey really needs to start carrying his weight around here.

I wander into the kitchen later on at night, wanting to get my spoonful of peanut butter, no spoons, so I open the dishwasher, grab the spoon and of course nothing else. I come back a little later to pack my lunch, no tupperware the right size, go into the dishwasher, grab what I need and carry on.

Finally, one of us breaks down and decides to be the martyr and unloads the darn thing. All the while non-verbally displaying our discontent to the other by loud bangs of the plates, throwing of the silverware, and shuffling of the tupperware cupboard. You can't unload a dishwasher without another person there to feel sorry for you, right?

So it's Saturday, the dishes are sitting nice and clean in their little racks, ready to be put back home in their special spots in the cupboards or drawers. A sink full of breakfast dishes is waiting patiently to be placed in the dishwasher. Casey has gone to play softball, so what is a girl to do??

Friday!

I have been on a hiatus from my blog for a few months...as my brother told me, he can tell when I am back at school. I think I was putting too much pressure to write amazing tales. So now I'll keep them short and sweet and more like a journal of things that are happening!

I'm so glad it's Friday. This was the first week back from vacation. I had a great week with my students. They were lovely and wonderful. I love my new reading class, so bright and eager to please. I get to give out awards this afternoon to students who worked extra hard for good grades and I can't wait to make their weekends. But I am looking forward to MY weekend. It makes the hard work I put in this week balance with the time I get to see Casey, friends and family. I also love my yoga class on Saturday mornings and the five dollar footlong from Subway that I split with Casey for lunch.


I wish to you all great and balancing weekends! What makes your weekend good? Is there something that you look forward to? I would love to hear your thoughts!

Baby Bumps

I'm not claiming to be rail thin here, but pregnant? Come on. This happens to me every year around the time of August, September, or October. I have the very personal and inappropriate question asking if I'm pregnant. I don't know what it is about the changing seasons that makes people socially inept to have the audacity to ask the question.

Two years ago I was sitting in the doctor's office waiting to get my blood drawn for my cholesterol check. A woman walked in and kept smiling and staring at me. I smiled back and she decided this was an open invitation to ask me when I was due. This marks a very critical point to a socially awkward question. I am really down to a couple of options and both of them will not flatter either one of us. For some reason I always choose the response of: "No, I guess I'm just fat." Laugh, laugh, laugh. I throw myself under the bus and hope that the other person doesn't feel uncomfortable.

What? Yes, ridiculous as it sounds, I somehow feel like I need to be the one who will take the beating to a new level. However, the other side to the coin is to tell the person that you are not pregnant and that it is rude to ask someone such a personal question. I'm not assertive enough to do the latter and find that when I'm blindsided by the question, the automatic response is to rag on myself, then fall into a pool of tears after leaving the conversation.

It happened again last year from a PTSO mom who thought that she was being very clever figuring out that I was pregnant. I still responded with the old no, I'm just fat, but the laugh was taken out of that response and I walked away with her calling, "No, I didn't mean it like that. Sorry!!!" Oh, I guess I wasn't sure what you meant by it, no, completely my fault.

But this fall has landed me a couple of doozies. The first was from a woman I used to work with at my old school. After a long meeting and sharing a table with this fellow teacher, I got up and gathered my things to leave. She immediately put her hand on my belly and very loudly exclaimed, "I didn't know you were pregnant!!" Again, my response came out, but this time I got angry. I told her she couldn't ask that to women and it is super rude. She responded with a hearty laugh and said that she knew that. I walked away with tears flowing out of my eyes and my colleagues watching my brisk exit. She knew that?! SHE KNEW THAT??!! No, I don't think that she did or she wouldn't have asked it! Grrrrr.

Today was the latest of my pregnancy rumors. In the parent loop at my elementary school, a parent of one of my former students was picking up her son. She called my name frantically as I put him in the back seat. "You're pregnant!" she exclaimed. No, I assured her. This was just a roll of fat, no baby was a brewing. "No, no! Look!" she pointed the roll of fat around my stomach, "You ARE pregnant!" Now this puts me in even more of an awkward position, she is a nice woman and I will see her everyday in the parent loop. However, I want to punch her or really give her a piece of my mind about keeping those comments to herself. I did the only thing I could do, "No, I'm just fat." Clenched teeth, chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. I turned away to a gaped mouth kindergarten teacher asking me if that just happened. Oh, yes. That was not a figment of your imagination. This is what I deal with--people with zero class and social cues.

I have pondered why I get so many pregnancy questions. My first thought is that I have a roll of fat around my middle that will be there until the day I die (just in case of famine). I also have an extraordinarily large chest, which I keep under tight wraps. These are signs of early pregnancy, perhaps, but I don't think my shape is any more unusual than the average woman. I've also thought that people ask me because I'm newly married and in the city where I work, the women have babies at the age of 16. I'm a very late bloomer according to their timeline. A very kind friend told me I have a natural glow that some may mistake as a pregnancy glow. I think it's just Eye Bright from Benefit I use religiously.

I feel for these celebs dealing with paparazzi accusations of baby rumors. How many of us have pictures where we are in an unflattering pose? Sometimes I have a big dinner and my stomach is feeling bloated, sorry no baby. I am a huge fan of the gossip magazines, but I think it's given some sort of permission for people to make accusations (as I'll so gently put it) about the personal and private things going on in others' lives. I admit that I have my doubts about Eva Longoria, but I know what she's going through, on a much smaller scale of course, if she really isn't preggers.

So here's my rule of thumb to asking about pregnancy, as many of you know: Only ask a woman if she's pregnant when a baby's head is crowning out of a vagina.
That's all. Pretty simple. Keep it forever and use it.

Out to Send the Very Best

Do you ever feel like in your job someone is going to knock on your door or cubicle wall to gently escort you to your car? They might let you know that it would be wise not to return to work in the morning because you've been found out. They realize you have no idea what you are doing and are basically wasting their money and time.

I felt that way often in my first years of teaching. There were times after looking at test scores or class work that tears where brimming on my eyes. Did they really not understand this? What more should I have done? Could I have stayed later and put together a 3-act play to show what a possessive pronoun looks like? Would creating a 10-part group project make a difference? Someone is going to find out that I just taught what was in the book because I couldn't think of another brilliant way to teach it.

I could truly live at my job. I could stay there all day and night and still find things that I need to do to be absolutely ready for the next day or upcoming week. I should really have my lesson plans all ready for next week, but I don't. I should really have all my copies ready for morning work for the next two weeks, but I don't. I should have all my reading centers sorted out to the exact time frame I need for completion, but I don't. Is someone going to find out that I don't have these things finished? And if so, what will they do--gently escort me out?

These are things that loom over my head at night, mostly on my Sunday nights. On Sunday nights I try to go to bed early. I lay in my bed and read, and read, and read, until finally my husband says I need to go into the living room to read. The clock that once said 9:16 now reads 12:07. Did I just read for 3 hours and not get tired? I try laying back down in bed, I close my eyes and visions of Monday dance through my head. I think about my lesson plans I need to finish, I think about those copies I need to make (and change my clock for 15 minutes earlier so I can get to the copy machine early), and I think about the centers that need to be organized. It puts me in a panic mode with a nervous stomach and I go back out to the living room and read until I FINALLY fall asleep.

Just recently, my mom sent me a link. She said to type in spastic colon Sunday + Hallmark into the Google search engine. I died. You need to do it, too. Please turn on your speakers quietly. Hallmark has a greeting card for everything including the nervous stomach, panicky, Sunday night blues.

A Little Piece of Heaven in my Pocket

Day 9. Yes, day 9 of the rest of my life. I have officially shown the door to a huge part of my life. I really thought that this break-up would make me sad, but I've been getting on pretty well. It's not my husband with the break-up in question. I have officially said good-bye to sweets and treats. Even the low-fat, no carb, Splenda sugar treats. They have done me wrong more than once leaving me still hungry and hugely depressed after our sick binge sessions together.

Last Sunday, after two days of eating like crap (I won't sugar coat it), I was feeling bloated, icky, and terribly guilty. I sang my little song to myself and danced my little dance about how I already knew the outcome and I went and did it anyway. I cried to my mom and she said, well just stop eating it! Huh! Yeah, if it was that easy, don't you think I would have done it by now?

No, she said. You have a very bad and addictive relationship with sweets and snacks. Treat it like any addiction and don't eat any of it ever! Give it a try for 3 weeks and maybe that will help break some of those bad habits. You may not ever miss them.

I agreed and starting from that point at 8:30 pm on September 7th, 2008, I have not eaten sweets or treats. Surprisingly, things are going well. I even had a potluck at school filled with very tasty comfort food including many things on my "no" list and I opted for the healthy chili, fruit, and veggies. Pat on the back for myself.

Nutritionists everywhere would be gasping...you can eat anything as long as it's in moderation. No, it will truly not work for me.

So here I'm sitting after leaving the lunchroom. A sweet little girl placed a tiny yellow Starburst in my hand. I said I would put it away in my pocket and have it as a treat after lunch. One little Starburst. It's quite a predicament to be in. I put it in the hand of a colleague and have been thinking about it ever since.

Seriously, Jesus!

"Dear Lord, I'm so very thankful for your blessings"--RING! RING!--"and I ask that you watch over my family"--BEEP!! BEEPETY BEEP BEEP!!--"especially for my baby niece that hasn't been born"--"Take me out to the ballgame!!"--"okay, seriously God, what's up with these old people and their cell phones? Please send me a sign that you will take care of this." ALLELUIA!!!!!!! ALLELUIA!!!! "Yeah, that's not the sign I was thinking of, okay? In your name I pray, Amen."

Old people. I love 'em. Some of my favorite people in the world are old people--self-proclaimed, I did not give them the label. Their manners can be impeccable. Doors open, pleases and thank yous, great listeners, and the list could go on and on. But there is one piece of etiquette that hasn't caught up with these traditionalists and baby boomers: the use of their cell phones!

Several years ago there was a big to do with young people and their cell phones. They were bringing them to school, they were talking on them in public places, they were letting them ring with loud, obnoxious ring tones, and of course they were interrupting any face-to-face conversation to take a call. They were a rude nuisance to all those around the impolite cell phone user.

Since then, I'm not saying that young people have gotten better, but we've made some changes to squelch the aforementioned rude behaviors. We walk to quieter places to take a call, we put our phones on vibrate or silent, we have been using text messaging to avoid the very public conversations, and perhaps we have replaced face-to-face talks for ones over the phone.

New cell phone etiquette rules are well-known among those 40 and younger, but I was very much enlightened by old people this past weekend. In case you haven't noticed, they all have cell phones now. Oh, wait you probably have.

I was at a conference this weekend with roughly 1200 other individuals. This was a Catholic conference I was invited to by a good friend of mine. I was excited to spend time in prayer and give myself a fighting chance to make it to heaven. Walking in, I was surrounded by older people--as in 60+ years! This would be a great place to nurture my need for peace!

One would think that you had a perfect audience to speak about Jesus, God, and the Virgin Mary. We were good listeners, we sat quietly, we said please and thank you, but we had a problem. THE CELL PHONE. During one particular part of this conference, we participated in something called the Adoration of Christ. It is a very sacred time of awe, prayer, and meditation. It is supposed to be silent, with the exception of the priest leading us in prayer. I was excited to be alone in my prayer and go through my laundry list of people I wanted God to watch over and bless and those I wanted him to zap with a bolt of lightning.

But no, my quiet thoughts were interrupted several times, and by several I mean roughly 10-15, with cell phones blaring the trumpet voluntary, Fleur Elise, the salsa, and I think ringtone #5 was thrown in there at some point. But when I quickly looked up to give the cell phone culprit a dirty look--I threw all Christ-like forgiveness to the wind--a white haired lady would be rummaging through her gunney sack of a purse to quiet it.

My friends and I would exchange our judgemental and horrified glances. Don't they know the new rules? Don't they know that their phones come with different sound settings? Didn't they remember to do something about their phone before they were going to start praying really hard to Jesus?

A personal favorite of ours was when the classic Verizon ringtone went off, starting quietly, then progressing to an extremely loud jingle. I turned around to see a man roughly 80 years old struggling to get his phone out of his hip holster. His cane kept falling every time he tried to grab his phone, creating quite the scene. When he finally won the struggle with the holster, I thought he would quiet the phone and put it away, but I guess he figured it took so long to get the darn thing out that he may as well take the call.

While the priest prayed for all those in failing health, my man behind me let the confused caller know he was not happy with her timing.

"Well, where do you think I am?!....Okay, I'm sitting on the side part...Well, they've already started so you better get here soon...Yes, I have a seat for you....ya...bye."

Did that just happen? At first it made me annoyed, but then I think the Virgin Mary gave me some divine intervention. My annoyance turned to laughter. She reminded me that old women were still finding ways to nag their husbands. No matter where this guy was, he knew he better answer that phone because he would get it ten times worse if he didn't answer it. I agreed with the Blessed Mary and chose not to judge--well, kind of chose not to judge.

The old people will come around soon. They will learn to fiddle around with their phone long enough to find all the neat things it does besides take and make calls. But I can't wait until I'm 87 years old to cyber-poke my husband and ask him to repeat what the priest just said.