Forced write numero dos.

I don't feel like writing. At all. But I have been on a roll lately and it only seems right that I continue the trend, whether I want to or not. I was totally sick last night, barf and all. If it weren't for the fact there are 4 1/2 weeks left and I am out of days and it would have cost me like $240 to be gone.... I would have totally stayed home. Ginger Ale and Zofran were by bffs today. I was pissed when I went to get Ginger Ale number 2 from the teacher's lounge today, only to realize some ass hole drank part of it and put it back in the fridge. I am totally making a fridge sign for tomorrow that reads: "Dear darling one who thought it was neccessary to steal and consume *part* of my ginger ale then place it back in the fridge, The soda you steal today, could be laced with Ex-Lax tomorrow. Be nice. heart, Karma." I'm attempting a delightful straight veggie salad with a vegan dressing tonight to see if it is nice to my system. I need a weekend, a day off, and a serious nap.

Feelo El Crapo

This is the most forced blog writing ever. I feel like doo to tha capital D-O-O. That's what I get for letting a magic pill prescription expire so I have to endure cramps and redonkulousness I haven't had to experience since Operation Preggo was in effect over 3 years ago. Now that my doctor has gone MIA from the practice she just moved too... I may be in the market for a new one. Now that you have TMI, I am D-O-N-E, and going to take a N-A-P.

Ugh, no wonder I spent much of my 7th-12 grade years in the nurses office once a month... sista needs to find a heating pad and some advil.

 However, having some clarity that I am not a depressed crazy maniac, I just have some wicked PMS I forgot about is comforting.... No one likes to think they have lost it.

And scene.

Recruiting helpers

So today I was thrilled to find flowers on sale. I bought a new watering can and Jax a special one too. He LOVED helping me water my plants today. He even got his hands dirty and helped me transplant the white geraniums. I mowed my ridiculous lawn and threw on some weed and feed. It was old, so I am hoping it doesnt fry my grass. Like.... bought before I knew I was preggo with Jax old... Then he helped me water it, because apparently I am too stupid to operate my sprinkler. I successfully watered one side of the lawn, then it got confiscated by the other adult that lives here and thrown on a top shelf in the garage. Good thing I am going to school this summer...I must not be fit for living if I can't run a sprinkler....but I teach kids to read. Go fig?

He did such a good job... he kept telling me, "Wanna do it like a big boy!" then he would water a bit, then drop the hose and say, "Ok! Momma's turn!" then after he got ancy-- wanted to be a big boy again. I love that he wants to help me. It makes my life easier all the time. He has such a good heart-- it fills mine up!

No room for the blues

Totally not my fingers.... but so the color of my tootsies.

Yesterday evening and this morning began with an argument. I whole heartedly put my foot down and declared there was necessity in getting a pedicure today. There has been a shake down and a "paint or get off the ladder" declaration issued-- and surely this could qualify as that clause "for better or worse"? Some how in the midst life has gotten complicated. I needed a moment of clarity. This color was calling my name, I wanted something groovy and different. When I flipped it over and it said "no room for the blues". I knew it was dead on.  I am going to keep on truckin' sassy toes and all.

These are totally my tootsies.

The sweetest gift

I have had the pleasure of working with some super stars this week to get them ready for their STAAR re-takes in a week and a half. This one boy just came to us a few weeks ago, and he and his Mom are on the run and staying at the women's crisis shelter in town. He came to me today with a very old, tattered book and told me he had found it at a house he was staying at once before they tore it down. He told me he gives his favorite teachers a page from it and wanted me to have one. Knowing his tough, tough home life I was thrilled. He delicately tore out a page and signed it and gave it to me. As he handed it over, he said the whole book teaches you how to speak and read Chinese. I am the fortunate one... I can now ask any native speaker if they are constipated. AND offer them a laxative. It was especially extra special because this kiddo doesn't read well enough to even fathom give me a page with the word constipated on it... much less know what aperient means. All week he's been wanting me to call him Eddie Murphy. You can bet I have. Has it made a difference? I am sure of it. Just sitting here, I think about all the other misfits I am expected to get to pass a test in 8 school days.... One whose father shot himself playing Russian roulette in front of him when he was a baby.... one who has a lengthy note on file about how his father has relinquished all parental rights and how he is not allowed to step foot in the building, yet this child is named after him.... One whose mother and 2 sisters were killed in a car accident 3 years ago, leaving her and her dad. One whose grandmother just died in Mexico, so he won't get to even take the second try of the test.... One who lives with an uncle, and isn't allowed to see his mom. One who has been taken away from mom because her mother's boyfriend molested her-- and mom didn't try to stop it. It cuts my heart up like a knife. The worst part? That's only just a few. These babies come in and out of my room and the whole world is on their shoulders. I just try to at least give them a little bit of hope. 

Tis nothing but a shitty first draft.

This caught my attention today.... my bff 4/E tagged me in this diddy she found on Facebook. It comes from the glorious Anne Lamot. Her book Bird by Bird is amazing... the first chapter, "Shitty First Drafts" makes the even novice writer hopeful they will be Pulitzer material someday. After all... that's where we all start. She says, in all her brilliance:

"Anne Lamott

I had a great idea for a new book, although come to think of it, maybe it is just a Facebook post. But it would be called Pre First Draft, and address the way we suit up and show up to be writers, artists, and general tribal-two-stomp creative types.

I think it would begin with an admonition: if you used to love writing, painting, dancing, singing, whatever, but you stopped doing it when you had kids or began a strenuous career, then you have to ask yourself if you are okay about not doing it anymore.

If you always dreamed of writing a novel or a memoir, and you used to love to write, and were pretty good at it, will it break your heart if it turns out you never got around to it? If you wake up one day at eighty, will you feel nonchalant that something always took precedence over a daily commitment to discovering your creative spirit?

If not--if this very thought fills you with regret--then what are you waiting for?

Back in the days when I had writing students, they used to spend half their time explaining to me why it was too hard to get around to writing every day, but how once this or that happens--they retired, or their last kid moved out--they could get to work.

I use to say very nicely, "That's very nice; but it's a total crock. There will never be a good time to write. It will never be easier. If you won't find an hour a day now, you won't find it then."

It's the same belief as thinking that once you lose weight, you'll begin to feel good about yourself. No, you won't. If you're not okay with yourself at 185 pounds, you're not going to be okay at 140. It's an inside job.

How do you begin? The answer is simple: you decide to. Then you push back your sleeves and start writing--I.e., scribbling words down on paper, or typing at a computer. And it will be completely awful. It will be unreadable shit! You won't have a clue how it account to anything, ever. And to that, I say, Welcome. That's what it's like to be a writer. But you just do it anyway. At my church, we sing a gospel song called, "Hallelujah anyway." Everything's a mess, and you're going down the tubes financially, and gaining weight? Well, Hallelujah anyway.

So you decide to get back to work creatively, and you write up some thoughts or passages or memories or scenes. Then what? Then you write some more. Everywhere you go, you carry a pen, and take notes--ideas will start to come to you. You'll see and overhear and remember things that you want to include in this mysterious quilt you're putting together, so you jot them down. Imagine a rag-bag guy who lives inside you, who collects images, descriptions, holy moments, snippets of funny conversation, for you to use in your writing--but he doesn't have any hands, and needs you to help him amass the rags with which you can make squares for the quilt.

That's all you have to do today: pay attention--being a writer is about paying attention. Stop hitting the snooze button. Carry a pen with you everywhere, or else God will give me all these insights and images that were supposed to go to you. Hang up a shingle on the inside of you: now open for business. Wow! You won't have to wake up at 70, aching with regret that you threw your creative essence under the bus. And if you already are seventy, then you won't have to wake up at eighty, confused and in despair about how you let your gift slip away. Because you will have been writing--or dancing again, or practicing recorder--every single glorious, livelong, weird, amazing day."

 so here I am... 3 months later. I have tons of drafts of posts lined up in this thing... but for a reason or another they didn't get posted. I am making my spring annual trip to "the bad place". What that means for those that have never been there is that I would rather just hole up in a cave in my pajamas and eat Golden Chick rolls and pepsi until I vomit-- than have to deal with real life. It is kind of a depression that hits me straight in the lady balls year after year after a culmination of school stress and.... well, real life. Imagine if 400 channels were constantly playing in your head all at one time, and your remote was broken so you couldn't mute any of them. Sucks huh? Hoping it will all go away soon-- just in time for summer. Well, until that roll and Pepsi shipment comes with my cashmere jammies and cave reservation, i'll keep truckin.