SOOOO TIRED

I have to admit that I am exhausted. 

The continuing saga of My Crazy-Assed Thesis Misadventure is still too fresh, convoluted, and maddening to write about just yet.  School (my job) today is spent on the math MCAS exam,  and tomorrow's schedule is nearly identical.  I'm working on recataloging the hundreds of reading books I have collected for the students because my original list is saved to a computer I haven't had set up in about a decade and has a floppy disk as its storage option.  I'm also trying to chase down the dozen boxes that were "borrowed" from me at the beginning of the year and never returned to me so I can start packing up those hundreds of books for our one-year move to the old high school while our asbestos-filled middle school is remodeled.

Just about the only exciting things going on in my life are: Constant sneezing from the pollen, my lungs are full of junk from being so cold that I'm probably slowly dying of hypothermia, my car sounds like it needs a new belt or two, and I should probably get my ass to the grocery store again sometime soon.

Sedate stuff by any standards, and yet I am so tired that I can feel it through to my core, so tired that I'm overly tired, which subsequently means that I cannot sleep.  Why is that?  How is that?  What laws of nature make us too tired to be tired?

I'm going to contemplate that conundrum while the students take the MCAS and I type in hundreds of book titles while subsequently shivering from cold and falling off my computer chair as I doze into that temporary sleep that doesn't translate for me when I lie down for that several-hours sleep that alludes me.

But when the weekend comes, do not contact me before 10 a.m.  Even if I'm awake, I'm going to pretend that I'm not.  With any luck at all, this week of monotony might lull me into complacency.  If I'm not asleep, I may well be in a self-induced boredom coma.  Either way, I'm not coming up for air until I can sleep for more than four hours a night.  Pretty soon even make-up won't be able to help me.  That thought alone should scare me into sleeping.

SCHOOL STORY STARTERS

Today during the lesson at school, I throw story starters at the kiddos.  We are working on a new unit, and the book we are going to read often steals details from the author's travels and uses random facts to tell the fictional tale.

The kids have four rectangles in which to write four different story ideas, but the kids are having problems coming up with things to write about. 

Have you ever been to an amusement park?  How about a vacation?  Have you baked cookies with a family member?  Lived someplace different than where you live now?  Attended a sporting event?  Built something?  Seen an unusual animal? 

I go on to explain that their stories can be short tales, descriptive pieces, or even instructions on how to do something.  Blank stares greet me, and I start to wonder why these usually prolific little tale-tellers are having such mental blocks about a relatively simple list of random details.

One kid mentions the time he and his twin tried to chop down a tree with a baseball bat.  It doesn't have to be so dramatic, I explain.

One of the girls mentions fighting with her sister about getting haircuts.  It doesn't have to have conflict, I assure them all, especially violent conflict.

The tales of horror and destruction stream out of them, and I wonder how could such cherubic children produce such harrowing tales of woe. Then I realize that these are the kinds of tales they hear from me on a daily basis:

• The time I tried to throw a kid out the Sunday school window because he wouldn't give me a turn with a toy;
• Careening through the air when my sister and I tied roller skates (with me in them) to a bike (hers) and attempted to hit Mach 1 speeds;
• Watching people at the beach do the Slippery Sand Watusi along the shoreline;
• Cutting my heel almost in half at Craigville Beach;
• Knocking my teeth out and cutting my cheek apart while pretending I was a ballerina;
• Hiding from arch enemies behind racks of infant clothing in Kohls (as if I weren't going to be visible);
• Putting on impromptu disguises to avoid being caught semi-stalking a friend's ex-relatives;
• Crazy travel tales from my many sports-related misadventures...

No wonder the kids think their stories must be intensely dysfunctional. My life is intensely dysfunctional.

Once I reel them back in, they are able to get back on task and brainstorm their way into some fruitful drafts.  This turns into an important lesson, though, but mostly a lesson from me.  The lesson I learn is that I have to try and tell some more normal, sedate, rational, and less humiliating stories to these kids.

Of course, then I'd have to tell them about someone else's life or completely lie my ass off.  

FRIEND-FILLED 5K

Today I participate in the Step Up for Colleen 5k, a walk/run fundraiser in honor of the Massachusetts teacher who was murdered at her school last year.  Colleen's family is local, and we have known the family for over a decade.  This 5k will be my first, and I cannot think of a more humbling event than this to mark as my initiation.

Originally I thought I would be participating by myself, without anyone else I know, so I started training.  The only problem was that I was in the throes of a bad bronchial infection.  I wore myself out after one mile.  So pathetic. 

Then I got sidelined by my thesis and all the melodrama surrounding that -- the lost pages, the overtly sadistic professor, the presentation, and the attempt at rerouting it onto the road to approval. 

I suddenly realized a week ago that I hadn't been training. Actually, I haven't trained formally since last fall.  So, being the incredibly dumbass whom I am, I decided to run the loop around my neighborhood and gave myself terrible leg cramps that lasted for days.  This idiocy led me to believe that I should probably just surrender my 5k delusions.

Then, my kids got involved.  All three of them wanted to participate.  I paid the entry fees for us all, my daughter picked up our numbers and shirts, and several friends also said they'd be there.  Suddenly, I had some support to do this.  My daughter and I agreed to walk the route with the families and children and meanderers, and my boys decided to run with the other athletes. 

Sunday dawns.  It's 5k Race Day.

I live near the starting line, so the kids and I walk the half mile from the house to Central Park, the gathering point for the event.  The boys get busy herding in with the timed runners, and my daughter and I look around for my friend Lisa, mom to kiddos who grew up with my children.  In the meantime of trying to locate Lisa, we hobnob with all kinds of buddies from around town.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar face.  Well, it's semi-familiar because it's a face I have not seen in two decades.  Walking across the lawn through the park, in front of our old junior high school, as if coming right out of the past is a childhood friend of my late husband.  I almost don't believe it is he, and it takes me several seconds to register:  Is it ...?  Is it …?  Oh … my … god … it … is!

You have to understand.  After my husband died, most of his friends and many of my friends fell by the wayside.  It's not a vindictive thing, though for a punitive few it truly is and good riddance to those, but generally it's just the way life goes sometimes.  My friend Lisa and my daughter and I quickly drag Jamie with us, forcing him to walk amongst a sea of pink women and families with strollers.  He's good sport about it, and we get caught up like old times.  Once we get beyond the 'howya doing" part, we move on to other friends who've passed, a sad topic on any occasion but especially sad today since the last time I had a chance to talk to him face-to-face may have been at my husband's wake, and also sad for the occasion of this 5k in the first place.

At the end of the race, my daughter and I walk with Jamie over the front lawn of the old school, where he is meeting another friend, Steven, who used to go to school with me.  It is a chance to reconnect with people.  Although I never do see Lyn and the few others I expected to see, I do get to see Joanne, Chris, Pug, CJ, and a whole slew of others.  The musical entertainment people provide along the way is outstanding, and the encouragement from the lawn spectators make us feel like rock stars.

I may have walked this 5k, but it doesn't make it any less special nor important, and seeing so many people makes it all that much better.  Jamie, my friend, you are a fantastic sport, and it was great to see you.  But if you don't mind, I'm going to go home and sit down for a few hours.  It may have only by a short distance, but after the emotional thesis presentation and the emotional reason for this event and after the joy of seeing so many old friends (and after slapping high fives with those Brownie Girl Scouts who finished way ahead of me), I'm suddenly exhausted.

If I don't see all of you sooner, see you all at the next 5k.

CHILDREN

Child #3 is home from college for the summer.  This is a wonderful thing for me as a mom, but a horrible burden on my grocery bills and my waistline.  I buy food "for him," and then I eat it, too.  Cheezits, cookies, sandwich meat...  All kinds of things I have avoided eating while working on my thesis.  As a matter of fact, I pretty much avoided eating while I was writing because it was often after 10:00 p.m. when I would resurface from the keyboard.

That being said, having the food in the house is also good when one of my other children decides to drop by.  They boys haven't had much chance to re-bond over the course of Child #3's lacrosse season, so the text I get from Child #1 is a bit of a surprise.  Text simply says, "What's for lunch?"

Lunch?  Good lord, children, I'm still in my pajamas at noontime.

There are many things I should be doing.  I had to blow off a fundraiser I really wanted to attend today (would've been doing iron-works sculpture) to do the bullet points on my list: laundry, schoolwork (correcting and posting grades for the kids I teach), reworking front pages and cover pages for thesis (because I found a second reader who did not and will not "lose" it), general paperwork, help get Child #3's stuff moved back upstairs, try to attend a wine tasting to help support Marines (niece is a Marine), plus I thought the Bruins game would be at night but it starts at 12:30, and the Kentucky Derby is on around 6:30.  I'm pretty certain I've left about ten things off of "my list" because I'm a dumb-ass.

So, in the midst of this, as I wrote earlier, Child #1 wants to know what's for lunch.

I have pre-cooked chicken, some pasta (rotini), and a large plastic bag filled with broccoli.  I bought alfredo sauce at the store two days ago, so I cook it all up and mash it all together.  Voila! Lunch!  Throw in a salad for starters and some mini-cannolis (leftover from practicing for Friday's thesis presentation), and it's a pretty decent lunch.  We eat until our stomachs explode while watching the Bruins game, which keeps us glued to the television as the Canadiens implode.

Then my friend Jessi stops by so we can whip up to the wine tasting/Marine event, run back to my house, watch the Kentucky Derby and drink Sangria.  I don't pick any horse that wins nor a places nor a shows this year, so I'm losing my touch.  Good thing I don't bet because I'd suck at it.  After the Derby, we head up to CVS, where I remember to buy shampoo but forget that I need envelopes large enough for my thesis.

I am run-walking (or walk-running, or just plain walking) my first 5k tomorrow.  How do I prep?  By dunking Milano cookies into chocolate fondue and stuffing my face.  Hey, I ate healthy for lunch, didn't I?  Pretty much?

I finally sit down for the first time in hours to just relax ... and nod off.  Seriously.  I am so tired that I might fall off the computer chair.  This is all very frustrating because when I do go to bed, sleep lasts about five hours, and that's with one or two interruptions due to my recently horrible sleep patterns.  Thank goodness Child #2 picked up all of our 5k information/numbers/shirts.  She's obviously the sensible one in this melo-drama.

Crazy as my Saturday is, though, I enjoy having my kiddos around, even if they are all grown-up and adult-like because we still know how to have fun.  Sunday's going to be even better because we're all doing the 5k together.  Well, probably not entirely together, but we're all participating.  The boys will run; the gals will walk really fast.  I gave myself terrible leg cramps, sore feet, and probably shin splints from trying to get ready for the event, hence why I will be walking and not attempting to even look remotely healthy.

I'll let you know how it all goes, just like I let you know pretty much every other dang that goes on in my life.  If it's anything like every other day, there will be tales to tell.

MARGARITA LIMIT

I have reached my margarita limit.

I know, right?  Shocked me, too.

I was working on my (damn) thesis, and I was considering rescinding it from the university and saving it for posterity or fireplace starter, whichever happened first.  Maybe I was at my thesis limit, like a tequila last-call.

Here's what happened: I made myself a perfectly fine (I know this to be true because I used the pre-made stuff in a bottle) margarita, drank half of it, then suddenly stopped.  It seemed way, way too sweet, so I waited a few minutes and then I tried it again.

Same thing.

I waited a few days, waited until the tequila stench had left the area, and let the blender sit.  All of this led up to, is leading up to, the thesis presentation.  The presentation, which is sandwiched between two wonderfully brilliant researchers and lit majors, goes well.  I'm on an academic high.  We three presenters go out to Salem Beer Works for celebratory drinks and some food. 

None of us has eaten properly nor consistently for weeks now, a factor we should probably consider before looking at the alcohol menu, but we have been in Thesis Presentation Mode for weeks -- none of us is thinking rationally anymore.  One of our trio orders a margarita.  I decide since this process started with a margarita many months ago, that it should probably end with one, as well. 

Bad mistake.

The withdrawal my body has been having from thesis-laced-tequila causes me to cringe at the first sip.  Oh, the drink is fine.  In fact, it's fantastic.  But, in typical it's-not-you-it's-me fashion, I simply cannot drink the whole thing.  I haven't eaten anything since the night before, and all I've had today is water.  This margarita, which is essentially all liquor with an ice cube attached, is not going anywhere quickly.

Damn.  I really have reached my tequila limit.

I'm going to miss you, Jose.  Give me a couple of days to get over this malaise, and then I'm sure I'll be back knocking on your door, begging you to jump into my blender and into my glass. But for the sake of my sanity, please don't leave my liquor cabinet in search of another.  After all, my thesis isn't completely done yet.  It still needs two more signatures.  You've been with me so far, Jose; stick with me right to the bitter end.  I'd do it for you.

WRITE, RIGHT

So ... I take one of those online quizzes to see what career I am meant to have.  I expect it to say something unbending, like judge or military officer.

This is what I get instead:  WRITER

Then it goes on to say, "You have a skill for language, your imagination is vast and you are artistic and creative. Your brain is just overflowing with ideas, and all you have to do is get a piece of paper and share it with the world. You were born to turn words into magical stories."

How fitting is it that I am about to crash and burn at a graduate event tomorrow that includes reading from one of my manuscripts that I hope to have accepted as my final thesis?

I'm not feeling very confident about turning anything into magic.  Maybe a pile of pooh, but not magic.

However, while practicing this evening for tomorrow's public humiliation, one of my co-presenters brings out homemade fudge, and this happens right after our hostess, who is also a co-presenter, feeds us the most amazing quesadillas.  (The homemade guacamole is also kick-ass!)

I'll be a writer if it means homemade fudge, though.  There must always be homemade fudge.  Chocolate may be the food of the gods, but it's also the food of writers.  At least this writer. 

Here's to magical stories and homemade confections!  And here's hoping there will be no crashing and burning.

GRAMMAR GEEKS AND THE OXFORD COMMA

 A friend brought up the Oxford (aka: Serial) Comma.  

For those not in the know, here is a formal definition.  Then I will enlighten you as to why this definition is incorrect.  Here it is:
The Oxford comma is a comma before the word and at the end of a list:
We sell books, videos, and magazines.  It's known as the Oxford comma because it was used by printers, readers, and editors at Oxford University Press.  Not all writers and publishers use it, but it clarifies the meaning of a sentence when the items in a list are not single words:  These items are available in black and white, red and yellow, and blue and green.

Here's MY opinion, and you may take it, leave it (here comes the Oxford comma), or bite me, for all I care.

The Oxford comma, for some stupid reason, has been bastardized in the press, the schools (here it comes.... Oxford comma), and the public. Without it, you stitch together the last two items and create the illusion that they are appositives of the first item. Example: I like the pies, Joe and Lisa. So apparently I only like pies that are named Joe and Lisa, or perhaps I am directly addressing Joe and Lisa, who are Siamese Twins and share a Torso. I don't know for sure, but the Oxford comma, thank God, prevents such perversions. 

The rule is for items in a series, folks; items in a series.  That's the rule.  Can't just make shit up as you go (listen up, Chicago Manual of Style) and expect people to break the rules just because journalism and English students everywhere are too stupid to learn the rules.

You cannot marry Ken, Barbie and Midge unless:
A.  Barbie and Midge are Siamese twins
B.  Ken actually IS Barbie and Midge
C.  You live in an extremely liberal state
D.  You're a wedding officiant

Carry on.