I Stand with Chief Joseph (and Will Fight No More Forever)

"Choose your battles" is a common phrase in teaching and in parenting. I have heard this piece of advice and passed it on to new teachers and new parents. I thought I understood it, considered it and applied it well. I thought I was familiar with the "hills I was willing to die on." I try to be rational and reasonable in peace-keeping, especially at home where just tonight I reacted in a calm fashion when the 10-year-old in my house pulled his pants down and slapped his butt cheeks in his sister's bedroom doorway, which resulted in the sister violently grabbing his cheek (facial) in frustration. I thought I knew how to pick these moments, when to fight and when to rest easily on the sidelines. I was wrong. Today I realized I failed to pick my battles in one important arena - the politics of this country.

For so many years I have taken part in many education-related fights. I have made phone calls and canvassed neighborhoods for propositions, budget overrides and candidates. I have participated in union meetings and activities, always trying to represent my fellow teachers and demand what is best for my state's youth - now my own youth (the irritants mentioned above). I have been a part of victories and some defeats. Recently the defeats have been many. When I say recently, I mean the last eight years. Still, I found myself gearing up for whatever altercation was next, armed and ready to advocate. Some of those local fights were winnable. Unfortunately, I now know many of the conflicts I was involved in were not. The latest was certain to be a loss going in. Regardless, I fought against the confirmation of an anti-public education Secretary of Education nominee who now holds that position.

Taking part in this battle was stupid. I had no business being involved. No one issued me dog tags. I wasn't in that army. Why? The answer is simple. I am not a politician protecting precious party lines and special interests while watching out for my next campaign contribution. In fact, I was a casualty before anyone even took the field - a worthless imposter, trying to get some shots in without a weapon. Expending any efforts was futile. I am now aware of this. I am also aware that right or wrong, good or evil - none of this matters as long as money is involved. As long as two political parties are involved. As long as lobbyists are involved. As long as million dollar campaign contributions are involved. As long as politics is involved - Democratic or Republican.

I am going to think much more before I head into battle in the future. I don't need to be collateral damage. I have enough disappointment in my life. I don't need to have the sprinklings of hope only to realize my actions had zero impact. I don't need to insert myself where I don't belong. My skirmishes will be much closer to home now. I can handle them. I'll pick and choose when to get militant in my household. I'll let the name-calling go. I'll turn my head when somebody "borrows" a stuffed animal from someone else's room. I'll ignore the dog poop that didn't get picked up . . . again. But when someone sets someone else's hair on fire, I will run the gauntlet.

Cavernous Contrasts and Consequences

We took a little Thanksgiving trip to the southeast part of this unique state, and I continue to consider the contradicting experiences during that mini-vacation. Since it's been over a year since I last posted, it seems about time to share some thoughts. Clearly, I do not have constant readers actively seeking the next installment, so yearly posts have become the average. Good thing no one is paying me for this.

In two days, we visited and toured two opposite environments that resulted in some philosophical ponderings for me. I am still thinking about the greater meaning of these incongruous episodes.

We prepared for our entrance into Kartchner Caverns by discussing its historical discovery. Sean, our guide (who looked like Paul Rudd), focused on the importance of keeping our oily, dirty hands to ourselves as we traversed the Big Room of the cave. We could not touch anything and even had to walk through a misting system to eliminate lint droppings that we might leave behind. The cave is amazingly preserved, and the message of the tour is conservation. The formations, history and beauty are mesmerizing. Altering them would be tragic. I was in awe of the story behind the discovery as well as the paths people took through the years to maintain what some could have easily destroyed. I was thankful for the experience.

Day two took us to Bisbee, where we toured the Queen Mine. We traveled into the mountain, seeing an unnatural cave. Man had blasted, chiseled and created this cavern in search of ore. The rock sparkled in places and water dripped down the cold walls. Again, I found myself mesmerized, considering the history within those walls. Our guide (an older, former miner) shared horrific and fantastic stories of miners, mules and minerals (yep, I am a big alliteration fan). Immediately, I couldn't comprehend and accept the difference in the message - strip the rock and leave the destruction behind. Endangering the integrity of the rock was only a thought if it affected the safety of a worker or prevented the requisition of the quality ore. Was I wrong to enjoy this concept of ravaging the interior of this mountain?

I considered the consequences and tried to talk to those with me about this contradiction in my mind. I was the only one who couldn't let this stand without some type of resolution. I like both experiences and appreciated both. Kartchner Caverns has historical implications - beauty all should be lucky to stand in front of and witness. Destruction would be a travesty. Millions of years of life and death, growth and change, science and discovery would not exist. Even if we didn't understand the loss, having never observed it, it would be a loss. The inside of the mountain stripped clean would not match that loss. Can I even call it a loss? What good came of the jobs, the ore extracted? Does it even matter that the interior of the mountain doesn't look the way that it did 100 years ago? I find myself still trying to decide. It seems like a balance, an unnecessary one, perhaps, but a balance. We do what we do with this planet, and we all will never agree regarding the best way is to treat it. Instead, we see these contradictions and acknowledge this ultimate symmetry. It seems to me that's all we can expect. For me, it's all I need, even if I cannot fully explain it.

Disenchanted Lullaby (Credit to Foo Fighters for the Title. It Fits).

For the last few days I have been swimming in a pool of disappointment. Most recently, I am stuck in the deep end, treading water and finding it more and more difficult to keep my head from dropping below the water line. As fatigue sets in and I allow myself to slip under, I would welcome the relief that drowning would bring. Unfortunately, I find myself dry and decidedly defeated - unable to find any relief. Before anyone gets too concerned, I will point out that I do not wish to drown. It's just an extended metaphor. Suicide is not the solution. I just wish I did know what a legitimate solution is.

If you haven't figured out the theme here, prepare for negativity. I don't want to add more negativity to the world because much of that is what has put me here right now. However, I am writing in this negative state to try to find some answers, so I ask that you'll forgive me for complaining and spreading bad news. If you wish to avoid antagonistic rants, I recommend you cease reading now.

Disappointment really isn't a strong enough word for what I am feeling right now. Crushing defeat describes it a touch better. Even that doesn't capture it. The level of discouragement is one I have not had to consider for quite some time. I attribute this to the fact that I have had a number of events leading up to this point. If I had to address these experiences individually, throughout a period of weeks, I would be able to manage the obstacles. All at once - I can't. I am trying. But I can't.

I can only speak in generalities which is the one thing any good English teacher tells her students to avoid. Due to the involvement of certain people, I cannot "show" instead of "tell" in this forum. You English teachers know what I am talking about here. Therefore, I apologize for the lack of specific details. Still, I need to let this out.

Here come the questions.

1. Why do I keep fighting battles I know I won't win? One of these battles is one a group is tackling, so I am not alone in the pursuit. Even so, the evidence continues to illustrate the fact that it's a fruitless fight. If I look back in history, I enacted a similar campaign six years ago. Back then I had the realization that my efforts were hardly making an impact. Knowing that, I still have allowed myself to slide into the same mindset that I could make something better when I should have just accepted that I have no control. If I am not the one with the biggest sword, I am not the one who should be leading the war. I am putting my sword down. I don't want to pick it up again because I can't invest the time and heart again. I just have to figure out how to remember that I need to look at the size of my sword before I engage. Each and every time. Look at the sword.

2. Why do I allow people to let me down? Is it because I hope too much, expect too much, ignore their possible deficiencies? I guess I don't want to be the person who says she never lets people have that opportunity to leave her disillusioned because she expects nothing from anyone. If you expect very little and you give very little yourself, what kind of disappointment do you ever really face? It sounds like a nice world to live in. Recently someone again told me I trust people too much. I see too much good in people, not realizing their favorable shell might hide something less appealing. Here's a Gatsby reference for those of you who did not teach the book for nine years - I don't want the world to be full of Daisies. I refuse to live in that place. Yet, I let these people in, defend them, believe in them. Their whiteness rubs off and I see the yellow inside. I know I can't change. I know I can't suddenly become a hardened person who speculates that each person has a core of deceit. I just wish I could maybe notice some of the yellow spots underneath the white before I envelope these people in full faith.

I don't expect any answers. You see, my expectations seem to be producing poor results. I ask nothing and expect nothing. Then I don't have to be disappointed. If only this were true.

Maybe I just need a bigger sword.

Let's Get Serious About School Safety

Nothing motivates a mother and educator like an ignorant proposal from an aged, balding, Arizona politician. This proposal is the Arizona Attorney General's way of protecting our school children (and maybe educators, but I think he would agree that they can be collateral damage).

Mr. Tom Horne seems way too formal for a party guy who secretly rendezvous with his mistress incognito and haphazardly hits parked cars while involved in said rendezvous; therefore, I will call him Tom. Tom's idea is that each school has one trained and armed educator. Participating, of course, will be the school's choice. The school will also decide who gets to be the armed person. I presume school officials could accomplish this much like the plot of the Shirley Jackson story "The Lottery." The plan is obviously ineffective for the following reasons:

1. Some schools are quite large, like high schools. Positioning this armed educator at one spot leaves 95% of the rest of the school or campus unprotected when the potential onslaught occurs.
2. The educator who is the sole defender of the campus might find it difficult to fulfill his normal daily duties while patrolling, protecting, investigating threats . . . .
3. The one person with the gun might be ill the one day when the crazed killer steps through the unsecured campus.

I could keep listing the problems with this otherwise stellar proposition. However, I am sure most realize the holes. An important lesson I have learned in my 14 years in education is that those who complain about issues see better results if they have possible solutions to backup their criticisms. Of course this means I have some great ideas. I propose the AG office begins research immediately on the following:

1. Train all teachers, maintenance workers, cafeteria workers, administrators and secretaries in firearm handling and shooting. This could be professional development at the start of the school year. Team building at Ben Avery Range? This sounds fabulous. The campus comes together while learning how to kill potential threats!
2. Since all will have proper, thorough training, hide guns in different places on campus. In the media center alone, I can think of some very effective hiding places. I can hollow out a few of the reference books that kids NEVER check out and hide some 9 mils in there. Of course, I can have one taped underneath the circulation desk for easy access if a killer bounds through the doors.
3. Put an invisible bullet proof shield around the whole campus. These exist in video games, so it seems likely the technology is available or just around the corner. That would be seriously bad ass and really save a lot of lives. Can you imagine the killer, armed to the hilt with clips, rifles, pistols and ammunition to kill 800 people, shrugging his shoulders and turning in defeat after realizing his plan has hit a major snag?
4. Develop a test for all people, especially targeting white males, that can determine crazy killer mode is in the future. Require that all people take this test starting at age 10 and every year thereafter. When people (probably white males) register in the danger range, stash them away on the Island of Misfits. Explain their potential danger to their parents and give the parents a small reparation for having to send the son to the island. This next idea might require more thought and research, but I will throw it in: Before getting shipped away, allow the sons some time to gather munitions. If the Misfits want to go on killing sprees on the island, that might be acceptable.

I can't say for sure, but I imagine I have put more thought into my solutions than Tom did. Then again, I probably have more time available to me. After all, I am just a high school librarian. Perhaps some of the works of fiction housed within my library influenced my plan. This seems perfectly fine since fiction also is at the backbone of Tom's plan. Weaving in some fantasy sure makes it much easier than facing reality.

Can't handle life? Maybe someone will pay you.

Her name is Karen Klein. If you don't recognize the name, that is all right. Her name will not exist in the public eye for much longer. She was a media sensation just long enough to receive over $700,000 simply because she was the object of some middle schoolers' ridicule. If you have not heard of the event, you can watch some coverage by clicking here. The video hit the Internet, and people immediately supported her, finding the actions of these boys disgusting and disappointing. I agree with the outrage toward the boys. The problem lies with the form the support took for Klein.

A concerned person created a donation site for Klein, a bus monitor who had no place riding on a bus with middle school-aged children as a "monitor." After a short while, the thoughtful public had donated the aforementioned sum. Thoughtful is actually the wrong word. If these people had thought much about this at all before typing in their credit card numbers, I don't see how they would have determined the best response to this was to reward this woman.

Of course, I feel sorry for her. Those kids deserve severe punishment. An adult should not have to deal with that. An adult would not put up with that. A person in an authority position, getting paid to do a job, would not deal with it. Why was Klein acting as a bus monitor if she had no skills or abilities to combat that type of behavior. Did she have any training? Had she complained before? She held the job for three years. In those three years, it seems an employee would develop a set of skills that would allow her to take charge, rather than become the victim to some boys' bullying.

I realize bus monitors do not receive a high enough wage considering the behavior they see each day. However, some twist of fate put Klein in that position as a 68-year-old woman. Perhaps she had a lack of other job skills, needed to work to support other family members who weren't contributing or deemed herself capable of that position. Clearly, she was not capable. Where were her supervisors? A woman with three years of experience in this job should have been able to discipline these boys herself.

This situation is another example of our country compensating people despite their inadequacies or maybe because of them. Consider your workplace. You likely have seen some of your colleagues promoted based on their inabilities to fulfill their job duties, resulting in a promotion to another job that they cannot fully complete. How about politics? I can name a few legislators locally who continue to "serve" the people due to reelection even though they have done nothing to prove competence. I could continue listing examples, but it seems pointless because I am certain a few minutes of contemplation on your part will result in your own frustrating examples.

Karen Klein now has over $700,000 because she could not perform the duties of her job. Congratulations to her. Today she announced she will go ahead and retire, after three year in the job. She finds it difficult to go, but "it's time to move on." Now she can sit at home and have no job. Certainly she will be capable of that.

So many people are happy for this ending, especially those idiots who forked over their hard-earned cash. Money they earned by likely completing their responsibilities at work. These people will dismiss the underlying issue here. They will dismiss the fact that their money could have assisted children in our country who live in poverty or people who would love to have a bus monitor job because it is a job. They won't think of the worthy causes their money could have aided. Nope. They won't think of that because it would be too difficult and taxing. Rewarding incompetence is just so much easier . . . and everyone else seems to do it.

Transformation; Or Jodie Got Happy

I have heard that the mid-thirties is an important time for women. It's a peak time for women for certain things. I won't mention this because my mom might read this. I am 36, and I find myself viewing life quite differently as of late. I know not what to attribute this to, but I embrace it as I look back on my journey here.

Most who know me well consider me a bit cynical and negative. These are people who have known me for years. My negative attitude, occasional rants and complaints and sarcastic tirades were always just a part of me. They made me recognizable and unique. My friends joked about it. I accepted it. When did this part change? I can't be sure, but my new place of work has definitely had something to do with it.

While teaching at my first school (oh, how I miss it there), I was never one to hide the pessimism. I tried a few times to shake it. I know some will recall the lunch table conversation during which I demanded we all say something we were grateful for then say at least one nice thing about each person at the table. This was on a day during which I was feeling much appreciation for my place in the world. I don't recall what I said about my fellow educators who shared my table (oh, how I miss them), but I can likely say some sarcasm seeped out. I do remember what I gave thanks for in my life. "I am happy I have two working legs, and I can use them to go anywhere." I found some happiness in that. Was this the only thing I could muster? It seems a tad weak; however, I recall truly being glad I could walk or run, if I so chose.

Surely my students saw some of these negative moments. Some were certainly the target of my sarcastic rants. I can't go into details here because I am still teaching, and I dare not incriminate myself. Sorry, kids. It made you all better people though. The only students exempt were my students during the school year of 2002-2003, what I call "The Most Glorious Year of My Life." I worked only 4/5 due to the addition of little Maddie. I left school each day at noon, graded papers (of which I had many due to my seniors in Writing for College and World Literature) in the afternoon and found myself freed from most English teacher constraints. This allowed for much play time with Maddie. I have video to prove it. I also have plenty of great memories. During that year, I recall my students telling me I was so happy every single day. They loved coming to class because I was always in a good mood. I shared this with my fellow teachers who looked at me with skeptical eyes. Nevertheless, I was a joyful teacher. Instead of essays that year, we deemed them "happy papers." Wow, what a year that was. I remember so many of these students and smile. Good kids. Good times.

I have found my true happy again. I have it right now where I work because I love my job. I enjoy most of the people I work with. The students are wonderful. The circumstances, of course, make all of the difference. Perhaps it is my age and my maturing and acceptance. Or maybe it's just because the people I work with are cool. I can only speculate.

Although I can't say exactly what caused this transformation or when it clicked, I can certainly own it. I recognize it and am grateful for it. Gratitude is powerful. Perhaps I was just too busy complaining to see the good before. Perhaps I didn't have what I needed then. I can wonder, and I do. I accept it now and declare that I will keep loving life.

For those of you who think I need to be miserable to make funny. Don't worry, I don't need that. I promise the next post will include laughs where this one possibly elicited smiles. Smiles are pretty good, too.

Pink is for Pepto-Bismol

October is such a lovely time of year. The football season is in full swing, the World Series sometimes results in an interesting match. The NBA usually starts at the end of the month. Usually. Idiots. For those of you who live in regions with climate change, the season brings falling leaves in appealing hues of orange, yellow and red. In those same areas, the weather starts to get crisp, producing chilled mornings.

Those are things I used to associate with October. I don't know what seasonal changes are anymore, so that's out. Football is still pretty interesting. The World Series is boring (I lost baseball interest long ago when I didn't have three extra hours each day to watch games). I might never see the Suns play again. No matter. These things mean nothing anymore. October, after all, means only one thing: Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

A few of you will relate to this blog, and most of you will likely call me some bad names and buy something pink to make up for my hateful attitude. I am ready for the consequences. This entry has been building, and the time has come for me to voice these frustrations.

Everything I see, buy or use is pink, right now, only in the month of October. The worst offenders are the football teams. Can I please watch a game without seeing a ridiculous pink addition to a team's hat that should never, ever have pink anywhere near the color combination? The cheerleaders at the high school football game last Friday night had pink pom poms. Pink clashes with orange and blue, by the way. I bought a pair of underwear the other day, and the tag had the pink ribbon on it. If I wanted to, I could buy toilet paper with the pink ribbon, so I could wipe my butt and help the cause. We have reached overkill. It's not cute anymore. It goes way beyond the idea of drumming up interest and getting donations. Now it's just a ridiculously marketed bandwagon that people jump right on.

I have a few concerns. Primarily, I am not a big pink fan. I do not enjoy seeing it plastered everywhere. I think it's an ugly color. It makes me think of Pepto-Bismol and the one time I puked it up on my olive green shag carpet in my bedroom when I was about 10. I also find the color too feminine. I don't even know what that means, but I feel it. I don't need my hot dog buns to have pink splashed on the plastic. I don't want my yogurt to have a pink seal. I am not going to buy a pink hair straightener when I already own one. Yes, it's green. Further, I am at the point now where I will choose the product that is pink-free.

One of the biggest reasons I swing the other direction here is because I understand how marketing works. Not all of the companies reveal how much they donate to the cause. They just make their crap pink to appeal to the helpers of the world. Guess what? We can be helpers of the world without buying the crap. We can donate DIRECTLY to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. If we want to support the research, we have other, more effective ways to give. We don't need to buy pink scissors, pink pens, pink water bottles and pink shoelaces in order to make a difference. If you feel the need to advertise that you, in fact, gave to help, get a sticker or something. That's pitiful anyway. Just feel good about donating.

Why is this a single-month issue? Why October? Why can't we hate breast cancer all year? "During September, I am pretty much all right with lumps in boobs. When October rolls around though, no way. That's when I suit up in my pink, put my game face on and swear to take no prisoners as I spend a crapload of money on pink stuff I do not need. I'm a fighter, and I'm fighting . . . for the cause."

The other issue that I can't leave alone here is the numerous other foundations and causes that need just as much funding and assistance. Why don't all of the sports leagues promote all of the organizations? I have never seen a Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation tennis shoe logo on a football helmet. I don't see socks with puzzle pieces on them with proceeds going to the Autism Research Institute. Hell, I don't even know what color represents the Colon Cancer Foundation. I think brown would be appropriate, but I can't recall seeing the color plastered all over during a special month when we should care. This is fine with me because if I want to give to that foundation, I will do it without having a color or a product pushed at my face.

Having purchased a few pinked-out items in the last few days, either inadvertently or due to lack of options, I realize now that I have given my share to the cause. Super. I find no need for me to donate anything else. I already gave. I am good. Boy, did I help out. I am so awesome, thinking of others.

I am not a hateful person. I just want football back. And October. Pink makes me puke.

Just Get Rid of the Hair There

I don't think many women enjoy shaving their legs and armpits. Consequently, I don't think men enjoy shaving that much either. It doesn't produce joy. The act is not exciting. In fact, it can lead to injury.

Shaving is a tedious task that we should not even have to complete. If the hair does not need to be there, should not be there, why is it there? This is just another confusing part of being a species that can think. No one is ever going to witness a platypus squatting in front of a mirror wondering how he can tone down the excessive fur on his body. An African Grey Parrot, an intelligent species, will not preen in his cage, use a little body shear and trim his feathers to a more manageable, attractive size. I realize his using the shears would be difficult, perhaps impossible, but you understand that the point is he doesn't need to. Further, he doesn't want to.

We humans find the need and the desire to shave, to look better. Of course, we all don't necessarily buy into this. I could be a person who stands my ground and says, "God put the hair there for a reason, so I am keeping it." That's ridiculous talk. I am not that natural. Plus, everyone else is shaving. I don't want to look like a freak.

My first foray into shaving was when I was much younger. I have no idea how old I was. I am thinking it was around 12. I simply know that my legs were hairy, and it looked like other girls were getting rid of their unwanted, ill-placed hairs. After much contemplation, and questions to no one, especially my mother, I decided I would give it a try. My mother had not discussed the issue with me, and I certainly did not want to address the situation. We just didn't mention these types of things. It may sound like this was the 1960s, but I am not that old. We're talking 1987 here. I had no earthly idea how to shave, but I found some disposable razors in the hall closet. I knew I wanted to do it in the privacy of my own room, not the bathroom we all shared. I had some logic, obviously, so I knew I needed to apply something to my legs before shaving. In a bedroom, without a sink or water, what could I use? Jergen's Lotion seemed pretty reasonable. Yep, that's what I used. It did not work that well, oddly. The razor kept getting clogged up with hair and pink lotion. I had to move the operation into the bathroom where I used water. Had I never heard of shaving cream? Never seen a commercial for the product? I have no idea.

I eventually discovered shaving cream and now use it all of the time. No need for any royalty payments for me since I didn't name a brand. I don't use a particular brand because I am cheap. I buy whatever is on sale or cheapest. Thus, this idea began this morning as I was using my Target brand shaving cream in the shower and looked at the fragrance. I was expecting to see Perfectly Peach or Luscious Lavender or some other "clever" name. Nope. This is sexy shaving cream, for the sexy, erotic job of shaving. It's called Ooooh Baby. This is such an appropriate name. How did the marketing geniuses arrive at this? I can only guess.

"Ouch, That Hurts. How about that? Or maybe Oops, I Nicked It Again? Wait. We're getting there. Let's go with Slather Up, Shave Down."

"Nope. Nope. These ideas are not cutting it. Jim, what do you got?"

"Oooooh Baby." Doesn't that appeal to the lady in the shower, getting rid of that unsightly stubble so she doesn't have to look like a freak and feel like a lazy, hairy loser? It's the perfect balance of 'this is sexy' and 'I am looking good after I don't have unnecessary hair.' Right?"

"Yep, Jim. We've got our fragrance. Great work."

Yes, I am being sexist. I don't believe a woman named this women's shaving cream Oooooh Baby. Evidently, Jim does do some great work. It's an entirely irrelevant name that reveals nothing about the actual smell. What the hell does Oooooh Baby even smell like?

The next time I shop for shaving cream, I am going to look at the fragrances much closer. I want something that tells it like it is and lets me know what the smell in the shower will be. That's what I want - something that smells good and gets the job done. I am hoping for Let's Get This Over With Lilac or No Nicks Nestle's Quick. C'mon people, let's quit creating weirdness where none should be, so we can keep getting rid of the hairs where none should be.

Feature Films Feature Freaks

While talking with friends about a recent movie-going experience, I realized that watching movies in the theater often yields some type of uncomfortably strange situation for me. Some of the people in the conversation each had a single story about unusual events involving them in movie theaters. After they exhausted their tales, I had plenty to continue sharing. This is a bit bizarre because I do not go to the theater that often. Having young children makes it difficult to get out to the "R" rated pictures. Maybe my stories are aplenty because I remember these weird instances more than others. Or, it just may be that I attract the odd. Maybe it's because I am odd. I don't know.

Experience #1 (most can understand and have experienced as well):
Last week I went to see "50/50" while in Denver with my friend, Amy. After touring a number of Denver malls in the sleeting, snowing, ridiculously cold for a Phoenix girl weather (should I hyphenate that?), I was happy to have a seat in a comfortable theater during which I would attempt to warm up my chilled feet. Thin socks and Converse do not insulate well. Although plenty of other seats remained open, two women in their 50s sat beside me. Right next to me, avoiding the "keep one seat open between parties rule." They began their chit-chatting . . . loudly. Annoyed, I remained quiet assuming their mouths would become silent after the previews. During the opening scene, the main character jogs down the street at a seemingly decent pace. A woman quickly surpasses him. The idiot next to me remarked, "That's what it looks like when I jog!"

This I could not abide. I turned to the right and asked, "Could you guys please be quiet?" The woman returned my death stare. We had a short death staring contest, which I won. Obviously, I did not pay $10 to hear Debbie Dumbass make funny during what turned out to be a great flick.

Experience #2 (perhaps this has happened to you):
While watching "Jarhead," a gruesomely bloody movie about war, a family of five sat behind us. This appeared to be parents and their children. This was a curious family film, considering the burning bodies, masturbating and vulgar language. Oh, but I don't judge. Where this went wrong was when little Jimmy (not his real name) began to cry. Apparently this toughened five-year-old wasn't ready for the images of war. He continued to cry and sob in fear. All the while, his family ignored him as they enjoyed their refreshments and Jake Gyllenhaal's performance. This occurred six years ago. I am sad to say I did nothing at the time. I am happy to say that if this happens again, I will not keep my mouth shut.

Experience #3 (relating to this is somewhat doubtful):
We were in the theater to watch "Zombieland," a movie I was excited to see. Arriving early, we sat close to the end of a row. During the previews, a family of three sat one seat away from me. Parents and a child of about seven unwrapped their snacks, poured popcorn down their throats and sucked down pop. Of course, I was disgusted that such a young boy would be watching this movie. The opening scene depicts zombies eating people, breaking bones and chomping on human flesh. The language is definitively "R." Nevertheless, I cannot dictate parenting techniques to others, so I lost myself in the film. We were about 30 minutes in, and I was enjoying the entertainment when I heard a large amount of liquid letting loose toward the bald man's head in front of the boy two seats away from me. It seems his 32 ounce soda wasn't sitting well with him. This resulted in projectile vomiting, made all the more powerful due the high content of liquid. My feet went up on my seat, and I clutched my purse next to me. How would these stellar parents respond? Dad yelled, "Fuck." Mom did nothing. Dad made a big scene and was ANGRY at his son. They were missing out on this awesome movie, after all. Both parents annoyingly ushered the son by us to the stairs where the little guy puked again. After about 10 minutes, a movie worker, with little booties on his feet and a penlight in his hand, approached the area to clean up both floor and stairs. Yes, the puke smell lingered.

Experience #4 (I bet this hasn't happened to you):
"Castaway" was one of those talked-about movies. I had read about its amazing scenes and wonder, so we decided to go. I want you to remember that movie if you have seen it. I mean really think about it. Tom Hanks' character is alone on an island with his friend the volleyball, Wilson. The dialog is next to none. The music is little to none as well. What viewers can hear is ocean waves, rain and the natural sounds of the island. I bring this up so you will appreciate how extremely peculiar it was that a blind man was sitting right in front of me at this movie. I think the time spent on the island is close to an hour. Nearly an hour of very little for this guy to hear. Well, it would have been very little if he had not had his buddy, The Movie Narrator sitting next to him.

"Ok. Now he's putting some palm fronds together. Weaving them to make something. We're not sure yet, but it's likely some sort of shelter."

"All right. You hear the rain, right? It's really raining. He looks very cold. He must be so depressed at this point. He doesn't know if he'll survive."

"The Wilson he is speaking to is a ball, a volleyball. He has given it hair and a face, so it's like he's actually talking to another person. It's all he's got right now."

This concludes the tales of my life at the movies. I have left out the story of the Loud Napkin Guy, The Family of Stair Runners and others. Luckily, I will go to the movie again, and something just might happen that elicits another story. We do plan to go see "Moneyball" today because the children are away, far away, with Grandpa and Grandma. You'll be the first to know if I make an addition.

Keeping Quiet

You know what's really loud when everyone else in the house is sleeping? The answer, of course, is everything. For example, ripping out the perforated center of a fresh, new Kleenex box equates to slamming a door, dropping a large wooden bowl to the floor and screaming at a high decibel level. This is what I hear, in my head, right now, when I have 4 ounces of extra snot in my sinuses. I truthfully don't know what the regular level of snot is for said cavities, but my vast knowledge of this from Advanced Biology with Mr. Bowen during my junior year of high school puts it at about 4 ounces less than what I must have now. I just thought I should explain how I arrived at that number. Quite scientifically, obviously.

We have company visiting from out of town, so all of the rooms of refuge for nights like these are unavailable. The presence of these guests also amplifies the distracting performance of noise I was sharing with the household before I had a smart idea. I am unsure why it took me over an hour to realize this, but I did discover I could just take my sniffling, nose-blowing self outside.

Here I sit, at 4:30 in the morning, finally finding the time to post a blog on a site which I claimed I would update more frequently. That was in June. Good intentions sometimes don't go very far, for all sorts of reasons.

Oct. 1 has brought a chilly 80 degree morning, and I was enjoying the peaceful sounds of the neighbor's pool, which must have some type of running water feature. And now the air conditioner just kicked on, taking over all serenity with its loud whirring motor. The short-lived Zen moment that didn't fully develop is now complete. Plus, I forgot my Kleenex box inside. Also, a mosquito just bit me. Good, I certainly wasn't expecting any special favors.

Oh, Urgent Care, oh, Urgent Care, open your doors for me.

Misty 'n' Mild

What to do on a 113 degree day in Phoenix? Visit the local water park, of course!

The 3-1/2 hour trip was full of valuable blog-worthy experiences. I could very likely record them all but would possibly lose reader attention after 10 paragraphs, so I will stick with the highlights.

Observation #1: Wet 'n' Wild's workers seem to lack proper training. Paying for parking was difficult even with three people in the booth. I can't say why because I could not see inside. I can simply say the person helping us was ill-equipped in her money-handling and people skills. The ticket person was of the same ilk. We had season passes purchased online, and we asked to get them converted into permanent passes and upgrade one. After 10 minutes, the ticket-booth worker returned our paper passes and one upgraded gold pass ticket which said we should take it to the ticket booth to turn it into a permanent one. We tried the other side of the ticket booth, where the better-trained worker informed us a printer malfunction prevented them from giving us the permanent passes. The other person either couldn't tell us this or decided not to. Further evidence of low quality training was obvious in the Boogie Board Beach play area for the small kids. The lifeguards spend more time flirting and much time ignoring the children, avoiding any direct eye contact when signalling to the 5-year-olds that yes, they can go down the slide now.

Observation #2: Water rides make people puke much like roller coasters. Luckily, the teen boy was courteous enough to lose his lunch off to the side, in the rocks. He had obviously been attempting to stay very hydrated considering the large portion of clear liquid within the puke.

Observation #3: A large number of people have tattoos and like to share them with the world, even if they should probably remain covered on those body parts that should likely remain covered for reasons unrelated to the colorful body art. Combined with this observation is the fact that many park attendees wore bathing suits that were a bit too revealing for them. The tattoos do make these people easily identifiable, without any awkward introductions or actual talking. I will forever remember standing next to Tweeti (tattooed on her ankle) and listening to her discuss her children. I know that the guy with the lion silhouette enjoys the Transformer movies, having shared all detailed plot points with those in line around him. People with recent tattoos do not let that prevent them from having water fun. They just cover them up with band-aids. Due to that coverage I can only wonder what the red-headed woman had hidden under what looked like suspender bandages. Perhaps next time they will be ready for open air.

Observation #4: I can and will bribe my daughter to go on slides she is afraid of attempting. I was not going to let this be Matterhorn Redux. I still have resentment about the fact that I could not talk her into going on that ride with me at Disneyland. I pushed and pushed for Maddie to agree to go with me on the Tornado. I offered McDonald's for lunch as incentive. She smiled but quickly said no. After another hour or so, she approached me and said she was ready for the Tornado. As we walked to get in the line, she said, "You remember our deal right? That's not the only reason I'm doing it though. I decided I should face my fears." As I predicted, she enjoyed it even though she did clench my hand throughout our entire line wait.

Side note to Observation #4: At all costs, while you're in line for a ride that is making your child nervous and a touch anxious, do not allow her to view the action of the lifeguards tending to the woman who apparently hit her head while on the ride you are waiting for. Having your child see a man whose tattoos declare he was "Forgiven" on the front and "Blessed" on the back carry said woman to a lounge chair might prove damaging. Watching the lifeguard quickly remove his Gilligan hat, run to the bottom of a slide to wet the hat and return to apply the cold "compress" to the ailing woman would not be a good experience for the worrisome child. Facing your child the opposite direction while you captivatingly witness the medical treatment is an effective method, which allows you to keep your eyes on the action.

Final Observation: Due to the line wait, which is partially due to the inefficient and poorly-trained employees at some slides, the park name should be Misty 'n' Mild. I spent very little time fully soaked and out of control and much more time very dry in lines. I found my time to be neither wet nor wild. I understand marketing and promotion, etc.; still, I am a realist and would rather just have the truth up front.

I am now glad to be back at home, a place I like to call Calm 'n' Cool. I find it to be relaxing and operated by decently-trained individuals. It's free of lots of tattoos and puke, which I also appreciate.

Things Puzzle Me, Namely This

Some people think my name is Donna.

This has occurred in the past, and I have recently had three people refer to me as Donna. If this happens, once or twice, a person can easily dismiss it and move on. More than four times prompt me to truly consider why this would continue.

I introduce myself as Jodie Donner. Most of these people have seen my name in print and/or have emailed me. Even so, they call me Donna. This might make some sense if I approached someone and said, "My name is Donner, Jodie Donner. Nice to meet you." Since this is atypical and totally outside social norms, I don't do this.

Often times, people shorten last names into nicknames. Bob Murphy might simply become Murph to friends. Some people might even implement the surname with a twist and call Mike Gordan Gordie. This is not what's happening. These are not good friends of mine who put a little twist on my last name and decide Donna is a cute and clever moniker.

Is this a unique occurrence with my name? Do other people find themselves answering to awkwardly truncated versions of their last names? Does Laurie Jensen become Jenny to others? Do colleagues refer to Michelle Patterson as Patty?

Thinking about my maiden name, Boeckel, in which the "o" is silent, it just hit me that people sometimes called me Becky. Is Jodie just not good enough for a first name? Maybe it simply doesn't work for some in that capacity. Becky and Donna must sound better.

If I only had a surname that would shorten to a masculine name, I am sure this would quit happening. Then again, I could be Jodie Richardson and people would call me Dick.

Resurrection

Forgive me Internet, for it has been nearly six years since my last post. I am not even going to address the hiatus except to say life and lack of confidence got in the way.

This formerly private, infrequently updated blog is now going live for all the world to see. Sometimes those limited status updates on Facebook just do not provide me with enough space to convey what I must convey. Due to that and the inspiration from Uzi Gelfand, I will return and post a little here and there.

Until a new post appears, those interested can read the archives, mostly unseen until this point.

Babies in China Need Homes

Pregnancy . . . it's a wonderful thing. A time to excitedly prepare for the baby's arrival, a time to pick the perfect name, a time to glow. Oh, and it's a time to throw up in your trash can next to your desk at work.

I don't want to puke anymore. I don't want to feel my stomach churning every day. I don't want to eat something every 2-3 hours to try to prevent puking. I want to lose weight, not gain a ridiculous number of pounds per month. I simply want to feel normal again.

Pregnancy is not for me in any way, shape or form. Having a child that genetically, physically and mentally resembles my husband and me is overrated.

After all, orphan babies all over the world await adoption. What the hell was I thinking?

Hiatus

How many months does it take to get me to blog again?

Apparently the answer is four.

What can I say, crap got in the way. Life got busy. I have had a few interesting experiences in the last four months - some even worthy of documentation. Yet, I didn't take the time to put fingers to keyboard and get that info. out. Pity. I guess. Maybe not. Maybe the world is better off not knowing.

For those interested, I will give a short list. The imporant stuff, if you will.

Highlights July 26 - November 17

• School started.
• Confirmed pregnancy.
• Celebrated 10th wedding anniversary.
• Husband had surgery (A-OK).
• Saw Weezer and Foo Fighters (excellent, worth every penny and more).
• Won title of faculty homecoming queen at school (so proud).
• Threw up a lot - pretty much every morning (seems to be subsiding).
• Ate a lot to prevent nausea (ongoing).
• Gained weight (ongoing).
• Celebrated daughter's 3rd birthday.
• Trick or treated with Harmony Bear (still trying to eat the crapload of candy).
• Got deathly ill with devil virus (not the medical name). Lost 3 days of life.
• Had a garage sale (made $145).
• Purchased iPod because it was totally necessary. 60 GB should be enough. Yes, it plays video. Want to watch?

I think that sums it up pretty well. Currently I am trying to decide if my habit of putting commentary in parentheses after each statement is cute or annoying. Not an easy decision. I will need to spend further time in contemplation. As I continue that, I think I will switch on the ol' iPod for inspiration.

Who's into Porn?

My taste in movies does not necessarily match that of my friends and family. I often seek out the lesser known, independent films. I give them a try. Sometimes they're great, and I am glad I discovered something worth watching. Other times I see a few not-so-good ones. Since my viewing preferences don't usually fit those of my brothers, I really should quit trying to pass on my eccentric movie tastes to them. I continue to recommend films to them anway, hoping they will see one and actually like it. So many great films are out there - I just want to share the good movies with people I love. Why can't they see that?

It started when I told my brother to watch Fargo. C'mon, it's a good flick. He hated it and told me so. I figured he would love Swingers. Again, he informed me it sucked. I recommended Memento to both of my siblings. They didn't like that either, but they never actually started at the beginning and watched it all the way through - kind of a problem with that movie. I made them both watch Frailty and The Salton Sea in my company. The smartass remarks went on for days. Now it's just a family joke that whatever I say is good probably isn't, especially if my brothers have never heard of it. So uncultured. So un pop-cultured. Poor souls.

So tonight I was telling my brother about Wonderland, which is based on a true story. I am so a sucker for that. For some reason I truly love stories that have truth in them, even if it is only a little bit. One of my recent book purchases describes the truth and myth behind 100 movies. So I brought up the movie, and my brother said he hadn't ever heard the title. He said, "It's probably like that other one - The Salton Sea." After reminding him that that was a very good film, I described Wonderland which is about four people bludgeoned to death in California in 1981, a case that involved John Holmes who was a famous porn star. I didn't know anything about this guy and his films before watching the movie.

My brother said, "Oh, like I haven't heard of that guy."

I replied, "Have you?"

Laughing, he said, "Yeah. Haven't you?"

I said, "No."

"Well, I guess you're not as into porn as I am," he said.

"I guess not."

Aside from the fact that my brother's trivial knowledge of porn stars is disgusting, I realize something else. I have solid evidence now. I have always wondered why my very own brother wouldn't enjoy the same types of movies as I. It's because he likes different movies, a totally different type of movies.

That's just gross.

I Need to File a Claim

The Happy Train crashed. I should be in the hospital with severe injuries considering the extent of the crash. Since it was all just a metaphor, I am not. Instead, I am sitting here eating peanut butter off of a spoon at 4:52 in the afternoon knowing full well I will be eating my evening meal soon. I call it supper even though some of you assholes out there call it dinner.

Even worse, I have almost made a conscious decision to just eat whatever the hell I want. I say almost because I then think of how I cute I actually looked when I was trying on the new school clothes I bought yesterday. Yes, teachers go school clothes shopping. Anyway, I do not want to gain five pounds before school starts. Ok. I guess I am back to eating better . . . for now.

So, damn life. Damn the depressing parts of it. Damn the little things that set me off and pissed me off. I am sorry, folks. The Happy Train travels no more. Find your own good time transportation. It's official. I am in no condition to offer people companionship or direction on the road of positivity.

Oops. I screwed up.

30

So what you're telling me then is that I'm old?

All right. Ok. I think I can wrap my mind around that.

Yep. Old. Thirty. I know it's true because that's what my profile says. I see it right there on the screen, in print.

30.

I don't care much because today is DAY 6 of my new positive me. I have to tell you, I am doing well with it. I am not just saying that to come off good or make myself feel better. Less complaining, no depressing thoughts, more looking at what's good in life. Happiness abounds in my house and in my mind. I am working to keep it that way too.

Hey now, c'mon, jump on the Happy Train with me. It will be fun. I have no idea where the hell it's going, but you can come along. I promise good times (I really have no way of promising anything, but it sounds nice and adds a whole new level to the sales pitch).

Does the Thermometer Go That High?

We bought a handy-dandy indoor/outdoor thermometer that provides us with the temperature in and out (duh), the humidity, the moon phases (why?) and a 10-24 hour forecast (shown with a little picture at the top). Man, this sucker is really cool. Reasons this is a necessary item in Phoenix:

1. You get to see the forecast without watching the irritating weather people (no offense, meteorologists of the world).
2. Blazing sun graphic (said forecast) reminds you what the next day will bring.
3. You just might see a negative humidity reading. What?
   -3%?
4. You see that the thermometer really does register 119.3.
5. Daily you can call yourself a dumb ass for moving here (or staying here).

So, you see, it's really a good purchase after all. Can I have my $45 back, please?

Yes, We're Packing

One of my bestest friends and I went out shootin' (as they say out there) at the shooting range. We went out for Thursday, Ladies' Night and had a kick-ass time.

I should say that my friend and I are similar but different. Wow, that sounds very stupid. Let me explain. She is more risk-taking than I. She doesn't care what other people think. I try to impress and hate to disappoint. She does what she wants and what makes her happy. I do what I want sometimes but usually try to make other people happy. We balance each other out very well because we meet in the middle. Also, we influence each other just enough to help one another see the other side.

Having said that, I should have expected we would have an interesting night, but I went in figuring we would go out, get our firearms, set up targets, perfect our stances, take aim and target shoot. After all, that's what I did when I went out for the orientation by myself. Instead, she loaded her magazine, held the gun with one hand, turned her head toward me (not the target) and fired off the 10 rounds as fast as possible. Under duress, I, too, fired away with lightning speed. Then I returned to my watchful, careful stance.

We were having a great time. She was firing like crazy while I was carefully aiming to hit the bullseye. She then said, "Ok. Now we're going to hold it like this (picture gangsta movie style) like we're shooting out of a car window."

"No way," I said. I was worried they were going to kick our asses out of there. Afterall, we were using their guns and had promised to take firearm safety seriously as we were ushered into the Annie Oakley Sure Shots.

"Hold it with your left hand and shoot like we're criminals stealing a car," she demanded.

Peer pressure is alive and well - even at age 29 (almost 30, damn it). I finally agreed to hold the gun with my left hand and shoot (but I refused to hold it sideways). It made me nervous though. Hey, I don't do anything with my left hand, let alone shoot a gun.

Our night at the range proceeded from there to Grand Theft Auto and then a little later, Grand Theft Auto: Spanish Version.

I admit, it was fun as hell. We were laughing our asses off. We were at a shooting range in 110 degree heat with safety glasses and ear protection pretending we were gangstas firing our 9s. Pretty damn funny. That's what she's good for - making me relax and forget what other people think. I need that. I need that a lot.