Terr-uh-fied.

This post began as a like/dislike list. But I got fixated on my first item. So the rest will have to wait. Which is sad, because I really like a lot of awesome stuff. Instead, you get to read about something I don’t like. Oh well, you've made it this far, you might as well read on…

Things I don’t like:

Ladybugs. I am terr-uh-fied of these beastly creatures. They are awful. I can’t remember a time when the presence of them didn't cause some form of mild heart attack. I do remember a time however, when one of them landed on our tram on the Lagoon Skyride. I began to crawl out of the tram in horror, 60 feet above the ground, while a friend of mine frantically brushed it away. Then I made my way back in, barely breathing.

 I more afraid of ladybugs than I am that Kristen Stewart’s face is stuck permanently in that dull stoner expression and that I’ll be forced to see that repulsive expression for many Oscars to come due to bad casting calls. Now that’s fear.

You never see ladybugs coming. They always appear out of nowhere, lurking, skulking, being vicious in seemingly innocent ways. In no way is this a joke. Some close to me have doubted my sincerity. They have very nearly lost our friendship, putting this fear to the test.

Out of all the awful stories I collected from my ex, the worst is when I was cornered in the bedroom, clinging to the wall, in hysterics as a ladybug walked around by the doorway. He refused to move it and take it outside. (I may hate them, but I’m not a bug killer.) He was convinced that if I faced my fear, I could be rid of it. No. That is not how I work. I couldn't even run out of the house, because I’d have to past where it was, which in turn could have killed me. Or at least created a sobbing, vomiting, wreck of a human. Just because it’s ridiculous doesn't make it any less real.

I can look at pictures of them, and hold items that onto which people have drawn or painted them. It’s a sick joke of sorts, people will buy me these things as gag gifts. I bought you a plate…but….ha! It has a ladybug on it! Whatever. I don’t know what they expect. I’m weird, but I’m not crazy. My fear is rooted in the actual thing. The presence of it near me, and my knowledge of that presence. Shudder.

Listen, I know that humans have taken over the land, and destroyed forests, and eliminated habitats. We have much blame upon us as a species. But outside is still a really big place. And my house? Not as big. Therefore, there is no, absolutely no, reason why a vile ladybug should ever cross the threshold of my home. Or actually my porch. Once I found a dead ladybug on the porch couch. Of course, it was on a beautiful day and I had a book I was going to read, and I was in a gloriously calm mood. Then, BAM. Frozen. I tried to pep talk myself into getting a stick and knocking it off. No. I couldn't even get the other end of the stick to touch the thing, as I stood swaying on the porch, tears rolling down my cheeks. I actually had to leave the house. I waited until one of my sane roommates could take care of it. Which, in turn, led to a nasty round of, what I like to call: ‘You-Can’t-Really-Be-That-Afraid-So-I’m-Going-To-Test-Out-A-Theory-On-You’. Which, in turn, led to hysterics. Which, in turn, led to a friendship almost lost. Not even close to kidding.

The stories go on. It’s a blend of ludicrous and pathetic. Somewhere in my head, I just figured I would grow out of it. Then I never grew past 5 feet. Which, apparently, is simply not tall enough to outgrow an irrational fear of ladybugs. Add that to your scientific journals. I can even illustrate my point for you if you’re unable to read. It’s that important.

I guess it still requires reading...but the point remains the same!

I dearly hope that you are never put in the position of truly being afraid of something. But I know all of us are. Even so, I hope you don’t face that fear often. Because it’s an ugly, hideous feeling when you do. If we could just form an agreement with each other, that we would keep each other safe, from whatever evils (real, imaginary, and/or really imagined) that we may come across, I think I would feel a whole lot better in my situation. I think you might too. At least, consider it.

If you agree, respond by keeping all ladybugs far from my vicinity. You don’t need to harm them or anything like that. Just, you know, push them into a garden or something. Like a forest. Or maybe the Amazon, if you have those kinds of connections. On my end, I will respond by continuing to do what I've been doing all along. I’m going to assume that you are currently in a state of safety, and I wouldn't want to jeopardize that by doing something different. Unless, of course, you’re NOT in a state of safety. Like, you are near a ladybug. In which case, I cannot help you. If you are in a circumstance not involving a ladybug (and you’re sure that it doesn't involve one!) and are seeking my assistance, please contact me with a detailed description of what I can do to help. Until then, Godspeed. 

Under-The-Weather-Ness

Teaching is a great job. Politics and the like relating to it tend to swing back and forth, but the actual teaching profession is phenomenal to behold. I love it. Except that I work in a germ factory. Teaching miniature germ factories. By the time you've been around teaching a few years, your immune system is made entirely out of steel. It has to be. Otherwise you’d never be able to leave your bed and actually get to work. I've had kids throw up on my shoes, cough in my mouth (even more gross than it sounds), and leave their used tissues on tables, long forgotten. All of this and your body learns to rebuild itself, similar to a superhero mutation but maybe not quite.  My point: if a teacher is sick, then they are SICK.

I don’t know about you, but as long as I’m healthy, I sort of forget what being sick is like. There’s a level of disconnect between my sympathy for someone else and actually recalling the feelings and exhaustion that go along with being sick. It’s a mental version of: I just heard you cough, so I back up a foot. I don’t even want to remember what it’s like to be sick. At all.

Now though, I remember. As I sit, hunched over my computer, my eyes squinting and my pajamas mismatched, I remember everything. It totally and completely sucks.

Temperature is a tricky bastard when you’re sick. It can be this way even if you’re not, but when you are it is multiplied by about 6000. Too hot, too cold, too anything. Never a comfortable resting state. And the rest! If you’re lucky enough to be able to sleep, (which I am because it’s the weekend), your bed becomes both friend and enemy. I love my bed. Post alarm clock me is IN love with my bed. But when you have to be in it, deemed unfit for life activities, even I begin to resent it a little bit. Spreading the time between bed and couch helps, but honestly the couch is just the living room version of a bed and everyone knows it.

Now that I’m sick, I’m home. Which, in the craziness of scheduling, I feel like I haven’t really been here a whole lot lately. And now that I’m here, without a lot to distract me, I’m noticing things. Laundry piled up, dishes in the sink, paper piles that have sprouted up organically throughout my shelving. Things that need doing, only I’m too exhausted to do them. How can I possibly take care of household chores, when the very idea of making soup stretches before me in endless steps. Walking to the kitchen, opening the cupboard, finding soup, closing the cupboard, finding a can opener, and on and on and on. All this for soup. Dumb soup that I don’t even think I want anymore. In fact, am I hungry at all? Nope. Finally a diet that might work.

Being sick comes with a time limit. I feel like it is truer now than it has ever been before. People work a LOT. They cram their days with a million things that they feel like only they can do, and there simply isn't time to deal with all this under-the-weather-ness. I will tell you though, that if you have the kind of job that you can call in sick to, and have that be it, you’re incredibly lucky. If a teacher gets sick, if a rogue virus infiltrates their impermeable immune system, they are screwed. Because when you call in, you need to have sub plans that go along with that call.

Papers outlining schedules and directions, rules, classroom outlines, kids who are able to help if needed, what books to read, where to find that thing that you could find within seconds, but someone who has no knowledge of your classroom could take months to find. It’s like leading someone around in a dark room. From a letter. Oh and there are a thousand kids in the room. And some of them cough in your face. Good luck. My point is that I need to be better by Monday. Especially considering it’s Valentine’s week, and also, Teacher Appreciation week at my school. There’s no way a sub gets to come in for that. I’ll crawl in if I have to…which I might.

This post is whiny. I get that. But I’m sick. And home alone. And soup is really far away. And my bed is gloating. And my laundry resembles Mt. Everest. Plus it’s Friday, which should have a rule against anyone being sick on this day anyway, just on principle. So be nice to me. When other people claim illness, I do the standard ‘get well soon’ statement, the ‘so-sorry-it’s-you-but-glad-it’s-not-me’ face, and really do try and make things as comfortable as possible; all by staying a healthy two feet away from them of course. That’s all I ask. And also, if I could just get some soup? 

My progress thus far. Also, does anyone know what that spoon holder thingy in the background is actually called? I ended up calling mine Rico, but it doesn't quite feel right. 

This Bitch Can Stitch

I've decided it’s time to update you on my sewing abilities. I’m sure you’ve all been wondering how it’s going. Possibly losing sleep, questions about my progress circling through your head. Maybe you’ve worried about me. Have I poked myself with a needle? Did it bleed? Did I cry? Did I want to? (The answers are yes, yes, no, and yes respectively.) For those of you (perhaps ALL of you) that are unaware, I have been proud owner of a sewing machine since Christmas.

To be honest, the most surprising thing I've discovered is the lack of actual sewing that goes into sewing. There is a disproportionate amount of measuring, cutting, pinning, aligning, and planning that happens before you even get to turn on the fancy schmancy machine. (Which is the best part, because it has this cool light thingy!) Then you get to sew for like five seconds, and then start all over with the measuring!

When you have big dreams, like I do, this is tough. I set out to change the world of fabrics. To become the ultimate designer, layering patterns in clothing, accessories, blankets, pillows, home décor and the like. To date I have completed three pillows and half a shirt. The pillows have all been given good homes. One is mine so I’m nice to it, and the other two were given as gifts to two of the sweetest, kindest friends a gal could ask for. Flashback to your childhood home where dozens of painstakingly drawn pictures of deformed cats and hearts cluttered the front of the refrigerator. It was kind of like that, only in 3D and stuffed with fiberfill. They are lumpy and odd shaped, OR as I like to say they are each individually handcrafted, and their specific features only serve to add to their distinctive style and charm. If that doesn't convince you, I don’t know what will.

The shirt is my first attempt at creating my own wardrobe. With sizes that fit and angles that compliment. I’m not sure this shirt has either of those happening. I ran into trouble when following a step-by-step guide and took a bit of a detour in the ‘Imma gonna wing it’ area. But I AM going to finish it. When I do, I’m going to wear it ALL THE TIME. Because I will have made it. And that will be awesome. Ish. I’ll probably wear it with a cardigan over it. Or a jacket. Or my winter coat. We’ll have to wait and see.

With so many choices of hobbies out there, I don’t know why I had to pick sewing. But I did. I HAD to. I want so badly to be good at it. But I hate the learning curve that exists in all new things. That I can’t just do A, B, and C and get an applause worthy product at the end.  Nope. In fact if I had to describe it like that, it would be: A. Aaaaa. Come on! A. Whew. Okay. Beeeeeeeeee….nevermind. S. Allllright. G. T. Q R S T U V. Oops. Uhh….C. (cough) Umm. Hurray! It’s basically a madhouse. With needles. No joke.

Really the whole reason I even wrote about this was because I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep one night, and I was playing The Rhyming Game (as you do). So I thought of the word Stitch and came across Bitch and then I was all-hey, I’m kind of a bitch sometimes. Oh! Oh! I have a sewing machine and I can stitch! A bitch that can stitch! Oh now well that’s clever. I should do something with that. So here we are. This is me, attempting to do something with that. Let me assure you, this bitch can stitch. Maybe not as well as I’d like too, but hey, you have to start somewhere, and the beginning is a pretty good place for that sort of thing. And now you know. You can sleep soundly, full of knowing things about me and my sewing of stuff. You’re most welcome. Good night. 

Ice Ice Baby

Whenever I think of icicles, I think of freezing unbearable temperatures, those awful scrapers for windshields, and a variety of ‘How cold does something truly have to be in order for your tongue to get stuck on it?’ scenarios. But after that, I think: pretty. Icicles are quite beautiful, honestly. A captured piece of nature and science, each authentic and organic within it’s environment.

These are pretty little gems, right? 

They can be delicate and shatter easily, or they are thick and as strong as, well, solid ice. They can represent the fragility and beauty of the winter season, or at least provide for a good photo op. I've also always associated icicles with the color white. All that I have seen are either white, or transparent, or a combination of those two. Sometimes if you look close enough you might see some dirt specks, but probably not. As the visual parade of icicle photos makes the rounds on Instagram and Facebook, I am further convinced of this as being the normal way of frozen water.

Only….this year….at my house…they are…not. Where I live you see, we have an assortment of decently sized icicles framing our outer borders that are the opposite of white and pretty and sparkly. They are, how shall we say, brown. Yes, brown. Our freaking icicles are gross and jaundiced, and big. And a lot. They hang directly below a blanket of pristine white snow, contrasting in a way that either make you want to laugh or cry, or laugh so hard you cry, or if you live here, just mainly cry.

There is no way to hide this, mind you. Every house on our street glitters with their pretty icicles, and sandwiched between them all is us. The brown sheep of sorts. Complete with a soundtrack of ‘One of these things just doesn't belong herrrreeee…’ playing in the background. We have become the smelly kid of houses! I have no idea why this has happened. Why the icicle gods have forsaken us, leaving a trail of rejected poo-stained icicles in it’s place. Ridiculous.

We are not a dirty house. Now, while we may not be of the June Cleaver category, we can maintain an appropriate level of cleanliness and charm. Leaves get raked, dishes get washed, and sidewalks get shoveled. We get as much rain as the houses next to us, our roof tiles are blue, and there is no reasonable explanation of why my home must suffer this way.

I confided to a colleague earlier today, describing how they looked. She suggested that maybe the roof was just dirty or something. Not a big deal. Then she came over and saw them. And burst out laughing. Laughing because “Oh my god, they really are BROWN! I thought they were just tinted or something but no! Those are so BROWN!” (I really don’t exaggerate half as much as people think I do. Most of my life is so weird, I never have the need to.)

At this point, I just don’t know what to do about it. Am I supposed to get a stick and try and knock the impostors off? We would then be the house with NO icicles (also weird but way less gross). Then maybe I could bury the frozen corpses in the backyard, and leave the graves unmarked and full of shame? This is a bad plan. First of all, IF there IS an icicle god, AND if he/she IS angry with us, I’m sure my destructive tendencies will not help our plight. Also, one might hit me in the head, and since it’s made of some vile blend of scummy water and who knows what else, I could get violently ill and die. So yeah, bad plan.

I could paint them. I could tape pictures of pretty NORMAL icicles on top of them. I could string clean ice cubes together and hang those up, outnumbering the gross ones. OR I could just hide in my house. I could use a disguise when entering and exiting, shielding my identity from being associated with such an unbecoming sight. Another option would be to write all about it and post pictures to prove it on my blog. Yeah, I think I’ll just do that. 

Oh. My. Lord. What is WRONG with this? 

The No Pants Proclamation

So, I’m taking a break from my hiatus to tell you to stop wearing pants. At first, this idea could seem uncomfortable, please give me the benefit of the doubt. If you got as far as the first sentence and just nodded, well…I’m the one writing this thing so it’s pretty clear we should be friends.

Think about it, seriously, in a reasonable, logical, manner. Pants are a conditional hazard brought on from ‘the man’ as in ‘stick-it-to’. Do you want to be a follower? NO! You don’t! You don’t want to lead your life following the actions of some pants loving crazie! You’re better than that! Live like me instead. Pantsfree in a one, two, three!

My life is like this: If I ever write an autobiography (I won’t, but if I did anyway) it would be entitled “I Hate Wearing Pants”.  When I get ready in the morning-no pants; roommate hazard, but worth it. Go to work, must wear pants due to a ‘professional atmosphere’. Get home, PANTS COME OFF. Immediately. Within minutes, nay-seconds! It’s the fastest movement I make all day. Then I’m in pajamas. Or shorts. I could wear skirts, but meh. Elastic waistband people, I’m just sayin’.

Sometimes, there are events outside of my control that cause me to leave my house post-work day. Like an intense craving for Café Rio. Or Hatches. (Hot chocolate. Go ahead and Google your way to a more enriched life experience.) To which, I unfailingly give in to. As my roommate and I agree to go get ready, it takes me all of ten milliseconds to call down to her, “Umm…so…are you wearing pants?” And we debate it. Talk it out. Usually I put the damn things on AGAIN! Ugh. But no more! Pants are so overdone.  

So today, I’m sporting a ‘transitional pant’, as we decided to call them. They sort of look like pants, but if you get close enough, you realize that they’re not. April Fools Day in May Bizznatches. As I head out the door, yelling out behind me, “Me and my non-pants are off!” I’ve never felt better. No zippers, buttons, or belt loops cramping my style. Just good old fashioned laziness. Now doesn’t this sound like a soapbox worth standing on? Oh, I hope so. 

Feelings Towards Coffee

I like coffee more than I like you. Just kidding; I think… To be completely honest, I’m sort of in love with coffee. Don’t get me wrong, I like you, I do. You’re great! And I’m sure, that given the opportunity, I could learn to love you too… if you were coffee that is. Bah! I’m hurting your feelings, I can tell. I’m sorry. But you have to understand, what it’s like. When the skies grow dark, and the world lies cold, there will still be coffee. And if there isn’t, well then, there really isn’t much else left now is there?  

 I love the color of coffee. It even looks warm. From the bitter black, to the heavily creamed tan it’s inviting. I love the smell. Waking up to it, the morning seems gentler, walking into a coffee shop, it’s like an aromatic hug. It says, your spirit can rest here for a minute.  The sound of it, the language the goes along with it, I love. Professional coffee drinkers flirt with the ranks of the multilingual. You have to know your stuff to get your stuff, and everyone in line behind you knows that even if you don’t. As for taste, I believe it is deliciously acquired. There can be such a range and complexity to it, that it can comfortably reflect the equally distinct personalities of the consumers themselves. And let’s not neglect the containers. Is it a mug, a thermos, a paper cup? Did you brew this delicacy on your own or did you go somewhere to get it? Local or chain? Size? The list goes on. Suffice it to say, I’m a fan.

Surrounding all of this though, there is a particular love affair I share with the second sip. I will tell you why.  The first sip is really good, it awakens your brain to the fact that something good has arrived. That things are about to begin, and you are indeed very lucky. Along with this however, there is climate control. I do not possess a tendency towards patience, and this almost always leads me to drink coffee immediately after having gained access to it. My tongue, my lips, all is pain. That strange sensation you have for a few days after burning your tongue? Yeah, I get that a lot.

 Even in the summer, when iced coffee is the thing at hand, it might be unexpectedly cold. How much ice is involved? Is the consistency different, more or less watery? How hot is the day around you in comparison? All of this taken into account, the first sip is great, but it’s truly a scientific experience. You are internalizing various factors, and preparing yourself to embark on a journey that is unique to each individual cup.

But ahh, the second sip. That is where it comes together. Instead of being surprised by temperature, taste, consistency, blend, roast, no. Now-you can enjoy it. You can relax and melt into it for the first time. The very fact that you’re onto a second sip means that 1) you weren’t just sampling someone else’s and 2) that it is very much drinkable. There’s definitely some security in that. It is no longer you against the day in isolation. No sir. It is you with coffee, and coffee is like the ultimate portable superhero in a cup. You can do anything.

We have reached the third sip. While this one, and all the others that follow it, are absolutely wonderful, they have reached comfort level. You already know what’s coming, and are just enjoying the ride.  From now on, the attributes of the coffee will remain mostly stable. No further tasting of this cup will fully capture the beauty of that second sip.

I read one of those Ramona books when I was little. In it, the main character, a little girl, is caught eating a rather large supply of apples. Only she’s not eating the whole thing, she’s only taking one bite out of each one. Confused, her mother asked her what she was doing. She responded that the first bite tasted the best. Therefore, she went from apple to apple, taking first bite after first bite, confident she was only tasting the very best part. I feel like my coffee theory is similar. It’s hard not to want to have the perfect sip over and over again. It is true though that I do get my fair share of them. Being a caffeine addict has its perks, including coffee on a continual basis.

I know that addiction is bad. But love is good. So I feel like the two cancel each other out, with love remaining in the game long enough to win it. With that logic backing me up, I figure I’m in the clear. Besides, there’s no point in arguing against a love this vast. I’m already in too deep. 

Molasses January

So, I've been having those weeks. The ones that don’t seem to be filled with much of anything. Friday arrives, and I’m like, “Oh, you’re here? Well, okay, good.” But not as in ‘Good, I’ve been waiting on you since Sunday ended and never thought I’d live to see you’.  Just… ‘Good. You’re Friday and I’ve been biologically programmed to love you, and I’m glad you’re here because of what you are.’  

But to be honest, right now, Friday feels the same as Tuesday. Or Wednesday. It’s still not on par with a Monday, but I fear that’s the direction I’m heading in. I’ve noticed this lack of enthusiasm lately, and I really can’t pin it down to any one thing. Nothing is particularly bad, or unusually terrible. Things just sort of…are. They just exist without emotion tied to them, pushing me to respond or react to them. So I don’t. I simply exist right along with them. I exist right until Friday, when I wonder where the week has gone, and if I made much use of it.

My theory so far, is that I must be a creature of the spring. As the world wakes up, perhaps I will too. Winter in general provides only a cold backdrop for retrospection. Everything is slower, sleepy. It’s like walking on a treadmill; I’m consistently moving. Always busy, but with no urgency. The road doesn’t end, there’s no rush to get to a destination. As long as I move, at however snail-like a pace, I’ll manage. And maybe in some weird way, this is a good thing. Like a mental hibernation, soaking in all these things that have happened previously and now letting them stew. Seep themselves deeply into my bones, where they’ve belonged all this time anyway. Instead of running; of moving beyond them so quickly that I can hardly remember them later.

I suppose that is my outlook upon my molasses January. It’s sweet, with nothing so very wrong within it, but slow. Thick. When it doesn’t really matter if I just began watching the sap drip from the tree bark, or if I’ve been quietly watching for hours; I’m content to find a log, zip up my coat, and stare into the process for hours. With absolutely no inclination to talk about it.