What Else Can I Do?

What could I do if I just did what I was feeling in the moment; what could I do if I just knew it didn't need to be perfect... Oh how glad I am that I have song lyrics to do my thinking for me... Actually, I've never felt the need to be perfect (this should be obvious to anyone whose known me for more than 2.5 seconds) but that doesn't mean I've been content either (this shouldn't be breaking news either). Until recently. (Okay, content is a stretch). While I've never felt the need to be perfect I have felt the need to...abide by a certain standard; My familys' (sometimes real, sometimes imagined), the standard implied by arbitrary numbers (what does the number of candles on my birthday cake have to do with my style choices??), and a whole host of other random "rules" imposed by...whomever. This line of thinking led to a lot of things, none of them good, until something compltetly unexpected happened; I stopped thinking and stared doing. Or, more to the point, I stopped thinking about things from "everybody else's" perspective (more or less) and started thinking about them from my own. I'm six years into Writing Rainbow, a feat that has required a good amount of ingenuity and sacrifice, one of which was waiting a year for full time status at my job when it was offered to me immediately. Why, you ask, would someone who, by her own admission, has been desperate for a stable work situation not jump at the chance for full time employment when offered? Well I asked myself the same question but I knew the answer before I did so. Full time would't allow me the flexibility to run Writing Rainbow the way I wanted. Still did it make sense to forgo a steady, full time position for something that lives yet to become a full fledged business? It did to me. It turned out to be the right move and, a year later (actually 11 months for anyone keeping score) when I was again offered full time it felt right to take it. Now, most of this probably seems unremarkable, as it should; there is absolutely nothing noteworthy about a middle-aged woman making basic decisions about her own life. It's like saying you went for a walk in the forest and came home with a mosquito bite; duh. But when you're stumbling through the woods and the shadowy figure you just ran from turns out to be a tree, it's still a relief. And that is exactly what I feel like I've been doing until recently, stumbling though an unusually thick forest, tripping over branches. Which isn't to say I'm not now, it't just that nowadays I tend to catch myself more often. In the last year + I've turned my part time teaching position into a full time, guided my writing program towards its next phase (including my first press coverage), and started to feel in sync with certain aspects of my family; all because somewhere along the line I decided that (not even sure I did it consciously) I didn't need to be acceptable (this is still a work in progress), I just needed to be. It makes me wonder, what else can I do?

Why Good Christians Get on My Nerves

Remember being taught as a kid to "treat others the way we wanted to be treated?" Sound advice and words to live by. Most of the time. Sometimes "certain people are only alive because I look terrible in orange" is more accurate. Candy (another teacher at work) inspires my inner serial killer (but, like I said, I look terrible in orange so...). When she first started working there, almost a year ago, she seemed perfectly pleasant...for about three weeks (maybe). Then came the race card. Candy uses it so often she must have sprung for the expanded deck. Someone disagrees with her? It's clearly because they hate Black people and not because she's wrong 90% of the time. Someone doesn't adknowledge her? They're obviously racist, the fact that talking to her for more than 4.2 seconds is likely to make your blood boil has absolutely nothing to do with it (insert eye roll emoji here). If her contempt was about actual issues (re: inequal policing, assuming we're all criminals, etc) it would be fine but, nope, that makes too much sense so let's just accuse two year olds of being racist because...reasons. But, wait, there's more: It's not only White people she takes issue with... "Wealthy Black people are trying to be White." I really wish I was making that up but it's a direct quote from everyones' favorite moron. But lest you think Candy's stupidity is limited to race let me assure you, when it comes to being an imbecile, she's extremely well rounded! Her other gems are included but not limited to; mispronouncing someone's name, continuing to do so after being corrected, and starting a fight with said person (in front of the students) insisting that her pronunciation was the correct pronunciation (let the record show that the person in question is Ukrainian and I'm willing to bet Candy couldn't find Europe, must less Ukraine on a map), coming into work strongly smelling of weed, throwing a tantrum because I chose to give the last cupcake from a student's birthday to another co-worker instead of her, and proclaining to know what's best for children over their parents. Add to this her other "delightful" habits such as eating like a pig, leaving her shit everywhere, and only doing as much work as she feels like on any given day and it's not hard to see why she's often the focus of everyone's ire. So what does all of this have to do with being a good Christian, you ask? Christmas. The time of year we celebrate the birth of our Savior who preached humility and simplicity...by being as materialistic as possible. Last year I was on a roll, the vast majority of my shopping was done by December 1st (I've already started on this year). Naturally, my gift list included co-workers as I have some really great ones, and this presented a problem. Not for me but from my good Christian mother who proclaimed that I couldn't give other co-workers a gift without giving one to Candy as well. Now, for clarification, it's not like I bought everyone else a gift except for her, that would be mean and, twit or not, I wouldn't do that to her. Out of the 15 or so people who work there I bought gifts for four. The problem was I had a slightly elaborate presentation of said gifts planned for two of the four people and really didn't want to hear it from Candy if she saw them (see cupcake incident above). Thus began the morality lesson from parent (what I call my mom): it's important to be nice to dingbats, easier to just include her, blah, blah, blah...what would Jesus do? (I seem to remember him flipping over a table and chasing people with a whip but I suppose that would be uncalled for. Eye roll emoji again). Long story story, Candy got her gift and it's times like these I wish my family were terrible people.

I Get to be a Part of Things Now

...Pulled my car off the road to the lookout, could've followed my fears all the way down... In December I'll finally achieve my lifelong goal of going to Norway. Back in April I went to Ireland with my family and I want the same experience I had there in Oslo. By that I mean the money to buy things when I want them. To most people in their 40s, hell, in their 30s, this concept would seem unremarkable; Buy trinkets on vactaion? Duh. Well, not if you're me. In fact, if you're me, being able to afford anything without an epic planning session is a new concept. The better part of a year ago my perpetually precarious situation slowly began to stabilize; I helped buy my cousin's son a bed, I went to several farmers/flea markets with family and bought clothes and books (so many books) like everyone else. In Ireland I bought a wool sweater (the thing to do we were told) as well as several other lovelies without breaking a sweat (this is what I mean when I say I want the same experience in Norway). All of this, this ability to run my life, is so far from where I've spent most of adulthood that I'm still not sure I entirely believe it's real. The girl who at one time wondered if it would be better for her to live in a shelter rather than continue to be a burden on her family (especially her mother) can now contribute to her household, if not with complete ease, then at least with confidence. The girl who once couldn't afford to buy her family Christmas gifts at the dollar store is halfway done with her Christmas shopping, in October. Writing Rainbow is better because I can dedicate more resources to its success. Helping my family. Enhancing my business. Going to friggin Europe, in short, I get to be a part of things now. The opening line is a quote from a song called "This is me trying." Indeed...

Yet Another Thing Disney Lied To Me About

When I was a kid I used to walk around the house with a t-shirt on my head, pretending I had Rapunzel-length hair. When I was 19 I decided that I was officially an adult who had everything figured out because of Ariel (Ariel declared she "wasn't a child anymore" and moved out at 16 but I knew I wasn't as savvy as her). And, apparently people look at you funny if you randomly burst into song. (Wearing ball gowns and tiaras on any day other than 10/31 is met with mixed results as well). But the biggest lies Disney told me were about nature; I've been waiting 40 years for woodland creatures to help me clean. And two weeks ago my mother and I went to Ossining Riverfest to indulge in overpriced (but very good) wings, canned wine, and blue ice cream. Underneath the resplendence of an apricot sky (and cursing the band for singing the ABC's) a CREATURE appeared. Black, creepy and crawly it invaded MY personal space. Then ANOTHER ONE showed up. WHAT THE HELL WAS IT???? A cricket, according to my mom. A cricket?? A CRICKET?? Aren't crickets supposed to be chipper green beings that remind me to be a good person? I'm telling you, these interlopers were stressing me out and not inspiring me to be a good anything. Argggh! God Damnit Disney! You got me again1

Peter and the Red Shoes

Once Upon A Time, in a land far, far away I came upon a pair of magical red shoes. The name of the far away land is called Chinatown and the shoes are vibrant beautiful but hardly magical (as far as I know). But a little boy named Peter in Briarcliff Manor might be. Peter is two years old and recently learned that everyone wears underwear (as opposed to just him, the result of potty training) but somehow he knows of the existance of the red shoes. Two weeks ago, when he got to school Peter did what he always does, ask me to read to him as I began to do so. The story had barely started when Peter asked "Where are your red shoes?" I told him they were at home but wondered how he knew I had red shoes in the first place. On Tuesday he asked the same thing, only he added "I miss your red shoes." Mind you, I have never worn the shoes to work, in fact, I forgot they existed. Yet, Peter missed them. Huh? By Wednesday I was at my wits end (and maybe a tiny bit creeped out). When Peter asked again for my red shoes I promised him I would wear them the next day. But the question remained HOW DOES THIS CHILD KNOW I HAVE RED SHOES??????? Peter and I arrived at school at the same time Thursday morning. As promised, I wore my red shoes. Peter was thrilled, exclaiming "Yea, finally, your red shoes!" His father raised his eyebrows. I responded in kind and explained the exchange his youngest son and I had been having. "Why Pete?" his dad asked. Peter just laughed and ran ahead of us. Why indeed. ::Shrug:: I guess how Peter knew I had red shoes or why he cared is a mystery for Sherlock Holmes...or the X-Files.

Every Lesson Forms A New Scar...

My life used to be...shall we say...chaotic. I left San Francisco,the city I had wanted to live in since I was five years old, in a state of turmoil and things didn't get much better until about...an hour ago. Okay, that's not fair. I can't say exactly when things started to get better because it happened in stages; First I replaced CMI, a "job" that is best suited to affirming your belief that you are pond scum (and if you didn't hold the belief that you were pond scom, CMI would have gladly convinced you!) with Amazon, which provided stability and the ability to earn more money than Al Bundy. Until it didn't. The problem with Amazon is it's like playing three card Monte; can you find enough hours to support yourself? Can you keep up your UPH (length of time it takes to complete an order) without having a panic attack? The thing is, while I was doing all of this transitioning, I wasn't really worried about being happy, as I had long since stopped considering happiness to be a possibility, at least for me. Then, the weirdest thing started to happen... I traded being a shopper at Amazon for being an assistant teacher at a wonderful daycare\preschool and things started to stabilize. I mean really stabilize. All of a sudden I was able to do things; Give my mom money without having to go beg rides on mass transit. Buy Writing Rainbow supplies without budgeting a month in advance (though to be fair, I still have to budget two weeks in advance, but only because I get paid bi-weekly). Buy gifts for people that aren't from the dollar store! Also, my commute is now 45 minutes (as opposed to four hours) and there's a parent who praises me for, quote "dressing like a princess everyday." Yet I was hesitant to trust it. You remember the rubber band theroy? Yeah, that shit is real and it's just waiting to snap and destroy anything you've built. Or was it? As things continued to improve I was afraid to admit how good things were, believing that the second I did it would all come apart. I fought against, not the fact that things were good, but the admission that they were. About a month ago I decided to stop and embrace the new reality God has given me. Things are good. Really good and I owed it to myself and God to say so. So I did. When friends asked me how I was I answered 'good' instead of 'okay.' Because they were. Until last Friday. Last Friday I woke up to discover Antigone's (my cat) back legs didn't work. I called work and told them I would be there as soon as I could but I had to get my Tiggy squeek (if you knew her this nickname would make sense) to the vet. Turns out she had a stroke and by 8pm that evening she was gone. Just like that, my world shifted. The rubber band had struck. The second, the second I allowed myself to embrace the fact that my life was in a good place and on a good trajectory, I lost Antigone. Last week was hell, filled with anguish and depression, feelings I am all too familiar (though the anguish is new) with but don't have any idea what to do with inthis situation. Except learn the lesson, heed the rubber band, and make sure I stay emotional middle.

Princess in ToyLand

There are only two options when turning 40; major blow out or ultra lowkey. Unless you're me, of course. I've managed to do both; My gift to myself is a solo trip to Norway for reasons I can't begin to explain (but will try in a future post). However, due to the unfortunate fact that I am an adult (In other words, I couldn't get the time off work), I have to wait till December. In the meantime, I've invited a handfull of family (+ one co-worker) over on my actual birthday for a non-party; tacos, cupcakes, & alcohol. As for presents, there are no presents over 18. Not really anyway. Sure, your sister may get you a sweater or whatever and your mom might suprise you with pre-paid hair appointments for the next few months but other than that... Gone are the days of legos, train sets, and dolls. When you woke up on your birthday excited for the onslaught of toys comming your way. Do you remember the first time you realized you didn't even want toys anymore? I do. It was Christmas time. Toys R Us (I'd be concerned with dating myself if I hadn't already told you I was 40) sent out a massive catalog every year around this time called the big toy book, or something like that. Me, my sister, and two of my cousins (Vicki & Teri didn't live with us so I have no idea how this went down in their house) would snatch up this catalog and take turns marking (a different colored marker for each of us, of course) all the toys we wanted. Well, there was one year (I can't remember how old I was) when I eagerly grabbed at that catalog and tore through its pages, purple marker at the ready...only to discover that the toys that year seemed somewhat...juvenile. I was horrified as I turned page after page and found very little that appealed to me. And that was it. Just like that, I had grown up. I was officially too old for toys. Apparenty, my friend Mary never got the memo. I've known Mary since freshman year of college. She had a reputation for being a bit...odd. (So you can see why we became friends). Mary is the kind of person who remembers your parent's names, your pet's names, and all of your favorite things. She's sent me a gift for my birthday, Christmas, and Easter every year for the last 20 years. I remember one time I was having a particularly bad day. I came home in quite the mood, only to check my mail and discover a heart-shaped necklace made of red sparkling flowers. It was June 1st and Mary had sent it for my birthday (nevermind that my birthday is the 18th). I instantly felt my entire bad day melt. On Friday I came home from work to a giant box on my doorstep. My birthday gift from Mary had arrived (a week early, of course). I opened the box and peeked inside just enough to see that whatever she sent wasn't wrapped so I didn't look any further (I can wait). And while I don't know exactly what it is yet, I do know one thing; it's a doll. Not a collector's item but a toy. This didn't suprise me; most of Mary's gifts were toys. And it was in this moment I realized something wonderful; at 40 years old I'm still getting toys for my birthday. Yeah, my hair is going grey and I'm supremely jealous of my students at nap time, but when I open a gift from Mary, 9 times out of 10, for a split second, I get to be nine again. Mary's gift may look like a doll, or a sparkly necklace, or an overly childish (even for me) blanket, but what she's really giving me is the gift of time; not present time, but past time. An invaluable gift always.