props to the fellas

Huge props to the guys at the gym who are there to work-out.

We put our hair in a pony tail, we wear sweats and a t-shirt, and we have headphones on.  Not to mention we are sweating like pigs and trying to push ourselves just a BIT harder so that we can get in that one-hour workout.  We do not have time for courting rituals.  If we did, we would come to the gym in a color coordinated jumpsuit in full make-up like work-out Barbie over there giving you the “go” signal.

Thanks to the guys who let us “get our sweat on” in peace.  For the rest of you, it’s called R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  Get ya’ some.

 

 

** Clarification for those of you who may not have witnessed this phenomenon:

What these guys think they look like:

What I see:

 

educational effigy

Many of you may notice a new tab and link to a new blog here.  Please check it out if you have children and want to learn more about education theory, practice, and current events or if you are an Elementary or Early Childhood Educator.  I would love to hear from you, learn from you, and, possibly, give you something to ponder.

journey into “an ocurrence at owl creek bridge”

Bridge at Owl Creek

**Spoiler-alert:  If you have not had the chance to read this short story, I would suggest reading before you go further.  Important story elements that should remain unknown until the end of the story will be revealed in this piece.

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord.   A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. ~ exerpt from An Ocurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce

I cannot read this without feeling like I have been on that railroad bridge.  I have felt those bonds.   I have the rope burns around my neck.  I have been Peyton Farquhar.  I think we all have to some degree.

I have been drawn to this short story since I was a teenager.  My heart still pounds when he dives, resurfaces, and frantically pumps his arms as he attempts to swim away from imminent danger.  My senses heighten as day turns into night, hearing the sounds of the crickets as he seeks his way in the bleak darkness.  A sense of relief washes over me as he enters his home, finally reaching his safe-haven, his destination, that which he yearns for…

And no matter how many times I read it, my mind still rebels when my reverie snaps back to reality upon reading these final lines:

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

The truth is, Peyton Farquhar never had a chance.  His destiny was bound as tightly as his wrists.  His body was encumbered.  But I think the reason I read it over and over is that his mind rose above that.  Even until his last breath, his human spirit cried out and attempted to spring free.

When I feel the noose tightening and, try as I might, that next breath comes laboriously, I am reminded to gird up my spirit and continue trudging forward.

celebrity look-alike

When one of your families bring in a baby who is a celebrity look-alike, you should always hope that the little bundle of joy does not in any way resemble Anne Ramsey.

It makes your job difficult when you cannot make eye contact without having the irresistible urge of screaming, “I only dropped you once!  Or maybe twice!”

My initial reaction could almost be likened to Kramer’s reaction in Seinfeld‘s “Ugly Baby” episode:

I realize that this post totally blows my rant about judgments out of the water.  I simply could not help myself.

I can still go from 0 to judgemental in 0.4 seconds.

Every child goes through “awkward phases” and some children are just naturally more beautiful than others.  During moments like these I wonder:

1.  “Does her mother know she looks like Anne Ramsey?”

2.  “Is there something biologically akin to blinders that affect parents’ vision that makes their children seem beautiful and perfect even when they are not?”

I distinctly remember (and have documented it photographically) where my son went through a phase where he looked like a baby monkey.

Here’s to faces only a mother can love and the process of growing up which takes care of much of our awkwardness.

brown my fat

Let’s talk about Freakin’ Adipose Tissue (FAT).  There are two types of adipose tissue in mammals, brown and white.  I lovingly refer to them as BAT and WAT.  [I am sure there must be a link in there to skin color, because I am blaming my extra WAT deposit on the fact that I am Morticia Adams pale.  There is no scientific proof of this.  It is a weak excuse, and will not jive when I get a bit of sun in the spring, but just swallow it with no questions asked.]

A recent study could lead to new breakthroughs in weight loss since brown fat takes calories from normal fat and burns it. Scientists have been able to stimulate brown fat growth in lab mice, but have yet to attempt this in humans.

Rather than getting lyposuction, I am going to have a doctor insert brown fat into strategic points in my body. 

It will be a plus if it also provides a tan based on my non-scientific, but convenient postulation above.

 

judgement

Judgements prevent us from seeing the good that lies beyond appearances ~ Wayne Dyer

I watch my son walk into his Elementary School and worry.  This is my son:

Evidently a little boy told him that when he brushes his hair flat, his head looks like a doorknob.

Okay, I see it.  In fact, looking at the shape of children’s heads is part of my job (another story completely).  I have noticed that his head flares up to his temples and that the top of his head is relatively flat.  I have also noticed that he has a fuzzy back, a fuzzy forehead, and a little fuzzy moustache.  He had them when he was born.  He’s going to be a caveman at puberty.  He has a little scar on his anatomical right cheek where he ran into a door jamb and got stitches when he was two years old.  He has the kind of butt that will never fill out a pair of jeans.  He has eyebrows like my brother, which threaten to overtake his entire face at some point.  These things don’t fill my head daily.  I see the whole picture.

I see the little boy who kisses me when he leaves in the morning, when he comes home from school, and when he goes to bed at night.

I see the zany nut who likes to sing “Girls Just Wanna’ Have Fun” (because it’s his favorite song), wear pink crocs (because it’s his favorite color), and dress up like The Phantom of the Opera (because one day he WILL be an opera singer).

I see the future man emerging when he holds the door for ladies, says “yes ma’am”, and wants to rub my back when it hurts.

I see the vulnerable child who speaks things in the middle of the night that he will not say to anyone else:

“Why did my daddy think other things were more important than me?”

“I miss our house in Charleston.”

“My Poppa is watching me from heaven and calling me his little monkey.”

 I have seen his spirit shrink when he pranced around with a plastic bowl on his head as a treasured relative told him that he looked stupid.

I have physically felt the blow to my own gut when he ruminates about why people come and go in his life and he cannot fathom why he is not good enough for them to keep coming back.

I realize I am one person against the world.  For six years I have told him that I love him, that he is smart, that he is handsome, and that he can be anything.  I thought I prepared him well and his self-confidence, at times, still seems unwavering.

But now he would rather carefully spike his hair, so as not to show his door-knob head.  And he has to be careful to do it equally so that his “head doesn’t look shiny” because his friends will tell him he is “going bald”.

He will only wear his pink crocs certain places, because other kids will think pink is for girls.

Somewhere in his little soul, his individuality is dying.  He is being judged and found to be lacking.  He is realizing that the world is not accepting.

I see an older woman wearing a polka-dotted mumu who obviously needs to wear a bra, at least in public, flaunting it all for the world to see and stop myself short of the snap judgement.  Who is she?  What things does she treasure?  Who is shattering her world with their judgements?  What song does she secretly sing in the shower when she can be the diva in her head? What does she think at night that she will share with no one for fear of being ostracized and shamed?

We think we are alone so we do not share our wounds and our flaws.  We pretend not to have them until they are exposed in marriages that were based on a sham or until we become a parent and realize we cannot be a great one because our own hidden, flawed parents are the only examples we know.  We share these inner shames with strangers in a blog.

I challenge you to revamp your outlook and your mind.  Reach out to your fellow human-beings in their flaws and eccentricities.  You will have someone with whom you may share your burdens.

They will teach their children and grandchildren how to be compassionate.

My son will treasure his door-knob head because no one else has a door-knob head quite as cute and wonderful as his.

stick a little plastic spoon in me, i’m done!

Today I went to a teacher recruitment fair.  There were literally no available jobs, but I went to the fair anyway.  I felt rather surreal, like I was an ice cream flavor standing with 100s of other ice cream samples in front of a fat lady at the Marble Slab on free sample day.  “Which one to choose, which one to choose??”  And after she has sampled them all, she doesn’t buy a darn thing!

if i were a delusional psychopath…

I just spent ten minutes altering this photo. Oh my gosh. I am a delusional psychopath.

cut the cheese funny… and other interesting search terminology

As most of you know, now and again, I like to look over the search terms that have brought readers to my blog.  Following are the top 5 eyebrow-raisers with illustrations of what I imagine my readers may have been looking for:

5. “cut the cheese funny”

4. “sexy male armpit”

3. “tongue insert to lose weight”

2. “epic fat guy”

1. “how is chef boyardee going green”

courting obsession

Painting of the Greek tale of Erastistratus diagnosing Antiochus with unrequited love.

Dating relationships that I have observed over the past two years typically have one element in common: codependency.

Fictional example: Think Romeo and Juliet. Their love was more important than living. Have you met someone for whom you would be willing to stop breathing? It sounds preposterious, so let’s look into nonfiction. Take Henry VIII’s wives. Marriage to him was dramatic and miserable at best, and at worst you may end up not having a head to add beauty and luster to that magnificent decolletage.

If you think that fiction does not have a base in reality or that history does not have a significant impact upon our lives today, let us delve into some current events:

1. Greensboro, NC; November 21, 2011:  Mother Murders Family, Shoots Married Lover Then Kills Herself

A Greensboro, North Carolina mother went on a shooting rampage on Sunday morning, killing 1 of her children and her niece while shooting her nephew and her son’s girlfriend.

The 36-year-old Mary Ann Holder reportedly also shot her married lover earlier in the day before later turning the gun on herself.

This shocking murder-suicide happened in Guilford County and left 3 dead and 5 hospitalized in critical condition. According to WFMY TV, Sheriff B. J Barnes called this the worse he has seen in his 30 year career.

Holder apparently had a tumultuous affair with a married man, 40-year-old Randall Lamb, who wanted to end the relationship. On top of that neighbors reported that she took in her niece and nephew after her sister died when she was already overwhelmed with her own.

Things came to this explosive climax over the weekend when Holder reportedly met Lamb for one last goodbye. She shot him at that rendezvous, then went home and carried on her murderous rampage there.

Holder shot her 17-year-old son Robert Dylan Smith in the head, killing him, shot his 15-year-old girlfriend Makayla Leigh Woods, who survived and is in critical condition at the hospital, shot her 8-year-old niece, Hannaleigh Suttles, who died at the hospital on Monday.

Her 14-year-old son Zachary Lee Smith is also in critical condition and so is her 17-year-old nephew Richard Brian Suttles. All the children were reportedly shot in the head.

Her married lover’s wife was the one who alerted police to the beginning of the rampage. Her husband had called her around 8:52 that Sunday morning to tell her he had been shot by Holder. She called 911 and police found him in his car near the GTCC Aviation center.

Deputies then went to Holder’s home on Cocoa Drive in Pleasant Garden, where they found 3 of the children shot and 17-year-old Robert already dead.

Reports say as the deputies approached Holder’s vehicle which was parked on Remora Road, they saw a puff of smoke. Law enforcement believe that was when she shot herself. Her 14-year-old son Zachary was found shot in the back seat.

According to WFMY News, Sheriff Barnes said Holder left behind notes stating she took full responsiblity for her actions and asked for forgiveness. The note also implied that the carnage was a result of being wronged by someone–maybe her married lover Lamb.

No one may ever know why this mother slaughtered and attempted to wipe out her children and other family members.

2. Delhi; December 6, 2011: A 26-year-old woman doctor jumped in front of a train here Monday over a failed relationship, police said

Ankita Shukla, posted at the Institute of Human Behaviour and Allied Sciences (IHBAS) in Shahdara, Delhi, lived in Karol Bagh area of the capital.

Her body, severed in two pieces, was found on the railway track between Mohan Nagar and Sahibabad railway station.

Police said she was in a relationship with a man named Ratan, which was revealed from her mobile phone recovered near the track.

A recent SMS to Ratan read: “You are a weak man so I have no option but to commit suicide for which you are solely responsible. Still, I love you a lot.”

Police also found a Delhi-Ghaziabad railway ticket.

“Prima facie, it seems to be a case of suicide but investigation is still on. Medical details and other information would be put on record only after the autopsy report,” Ghaziabad Superintendent of Police (city) J.K. Shahi said.

3. Zimbabwe; January 21, 2012:  Man commits suicide over wife’s infidelity with Deputy Mayor

A soldier in Gweru, who for long suspected his wife of having an extra-marital affair with Gweru City Deputy Mayor Councillor Taurai Demo, committed suicide by taking a pesticide inside the council chambers at Town House.
The soldier has been identified as Major Chitsiko (46), a Warrant Officer Class Two based at Zimbabwe Military Academy (ZMA).
 He was said to have recently separated with the wife, Nosizo, over her alleged affair with Clr Demo.
Mrs Chitsiko is employed at the Gweru City Council as a secretary to the chamber secretary.
Midlands police spokesperson Inspector Patrick Chademana confirmed the incident, which occurred on Tuesday at about 5pm but referred this reporter to ZMA public relations offices.
 Sources close to the incident said on the fateful day, Chitsiko who was in his full military combat, stormed the Town House armed with a machete and demanded to see his wife and the deputy mayor.
 ”Mrs Chitsiko had just separated with her husband after he assaulted her over the alleged extra-marital affair with the deputy mayor. The husband then stormed council offices on Tuesday after 5pm armed with a machete in search of his estranged wife and the deputy mayor,” said the source.
 The source said the few council staffers who were at Town House then told Chitsiko that a majority of council employees, including his estranged wife, had just knocked off.
 ”He then started to shout at everyone while indicating that he intended to use the machete to chop off his wife’s hands and feet. He also hinted that he intended to commit suicide after attacking the wife and deputy mayor whom he was accusing of having ruined his life,” said the source.
 The sources said Chitsiko later went into the council chambers where he then drank some pesticide from a bottle that he drew out of the pockets of his uniform.
 ”The few staffers at the Town House who included the acting director of health services, Mr Christopher Ruwodo, quickly called the police and an ambulance after watching helplessly Chitsiko screaming with pain following his drinking the pesticide,” said the source.
 The sources said Chitsiko was rushed to Gweru Provincial Hospital following the incident.
 Clr Demo who said he only learnt of the suicide incident at Town House on Wednesday refuted allegations that he was at the centre of the controversy leading to the suicide.
 ”I am very surprised that people want to drag my name into the mud. I only learnt of the suicide incident yesterday and I am shocked by the unfounded allegations that I was having an affair with a council secretary. I don’t even know her name. I believe this is politics and there are some people who are out to tarnish my name but only God knows that I am clean,” he said.
 ZMA public relations officer Warrant Officer Onias Maphisa confirmed the death of Chitsiko.
“I can confirm that our colleague, Warrant Officer Chitsiko, died after he took some pesticide at Town House but we are not aware of the reason behind his committing suicide. You can, however, get further clarification from Zimbabwe Defence Forces headquarters in Harare because he was only accommodated here at the ZMA on recommendation from the ZDF. He was a member of the ZDF in Harare,” he said.

Current events, three different parts of the world, same theme: When are we going to stop these self-destructive behaviors and start gleaning our self-worth from ourselves and not other people?

Three different parts of the world, three different groups of people, three different codependent relationships which left trajedy in their wake.  Obviously these are extreme cases, but we create small trajedies all around us when we engage in a relationship that we hold more important more important than ourselves and our loved ones.  We often think about codependent relationships when we think of couples in which a partner has an alcohol addiction, a drug problem, or some other addiction.  Codependent relationships, however, can exist among the simplest of issues, even when one partner simply pays little interest in having a working relationship with the other.  In each case, the other (codependent) partner is left feeling like he or she must “fix” the problem and will exhaust himself or herself to that end.

It is never one person’s job to fix another.  The only person one has personal accountability and responsibility for is themself.  I propose that, if you feel you are codependent, you must “fix” that which you have control over.  You must “fix” yourself.  Identify your issues, your flaws.  Work diligently to become a better person.  When you stop and look back a month from now, a year from now, and your partner is still uninvested, drinking, using drugs, or generally lackadaisical, you will be healthy.  You will know how to move on before the relationship becomes toxic and you lose your identity in a relationship that was never there in the first place.

Would you play catch with someone who was sleeping?  It’s no fun when you throw the ball and have to chase it around while your partner catches some Z’s, fulfilling his or her own needs and never considering yours.  Find someone who will invest in you just as much.  Then you can really play ball.

ptsd

It comes on as quickly and violently as I imagine it would be to be hit by a speeding car.  After it hits, you realize that it has been creeping up like the dusk on a summer day.  You wake after vivid nightmares, looking around and making sure everyone is safe, soaked with sweat, your chest so heavy you are afraid you will stop breathing.  You are on the edge of panic, all the while telling yourself, “It’s just a dream.  You are safe.  It is over.”  If you have experienced it before you my know what triggered it and you must get away from your trigger at all cost.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a condition which occurs when deadly circumstances (threatened death, serious injury, etc.) are experienced by a person and said person experiences intense fear, helplessness, and often anxiety and panic.  One may experience several different categories of symptoms with this disorder.

Re-Experiencing Symptoms

• Flashbacks
• Nightmares

Avoidance Symptoms

• Amnesia
• Feelings of Detachment
• Avoidance of people, places, or things that may prove to be reminders of the event.

Hyperarousal Symptoms

• Sleep difficulty
• Irritability
• Difficulty Concentrating
• Hypervigilance

PTSD can appear briefly, but can also become chronic.  Like a cancer, it can go into remission and recur days, weeks, months, or even years later.

“Know thine enemy”… especially if your enemy is yourself.

be a better person

When we enter into new relationships, we often put our best foot forward.  At times we assume that it is in order to appear worthy to the other person, but I tend to think that when we meet someone we like, something about them makes us desire to be a better person.  Once we get to know the other person, however, and find out that they have their issues too, our drive weakens and may disappear altogether, causing us to slip back into our old ways.

I challenge you to be a better person… for yourself.  Like yourself enough to want the best for you.  Your dating prospects will improve.  Why would they not?  You just raised your own property value.

sofa king clever!

A man’s face is his autobiography.  A woman’s face is her work of fiction.

~ Oscar Wilde

Some days I wish it did not take so long to make myself presentable.

In my younger days, I took it for granted that I could throw some lip gloss on and go in 15 minutes.  Now that 15 minutes has turned into 45.  Soon I am sure it will turn into 60.  Too bad men are not a) blind or b) appreciative of the rugged pioneer woman look where calloused, weathered skin with sun spots is the sign of a true woman.  It would save me a lot of time.

Then again, in my own vanity, I probably would not take advantage of it anyway…

rights of passage

Today marks the first day he awoke to the mysterious monetary donation left by the Tooth Fairy.  Today is the first of many ”coming of age” events.

Here’s to the future:  First Kiss, First Girlfriend, First Date… College, Weddings, Births, and everything watching your child grow up entails.

this month’s strange wordpress search is…

[drum roll]

“sexy male easter bunny”

Huh.  How this got anyone here, I have no idea.  In wondering why someone would search for this particular phenomenon I wonder, is this some new fetish I do not know about?  If this Word-Presser stuck around, maybe he or she can enlighten us!

This bizarre search was followed pretty closely by “women mess with your head”.  Sounds like a great idea for my next blog post!

Happy searching!

defining sexy

Smouldering gaze… come-hither aura… he thinks he has it all.

I’m just saying that, right about now, I have to find this a bit more sexy:

I’m not against the next television hottie walking through my door for the long-haul.  I just think that any man walking out of my door with a bag of garbage to be taken out or walking into the laundry room to start the washing machine is much hotter.  If he just happens to have a six-pack and pecs that you could bounce a quarter off of, hey… I can’t complain.  I’m just saying that Average Joe can compete with this:

Not like this!:

But add a little of this…

And I’m all like this:

Making my life more simple is totally hot…

Just don’t expect to compete with this:

There are limits, man!

farting: the battle of the sexes continues

Who needs cologne when you have.... PooFume?

“Mom! I just cut the cheese!” cries my 6-year old as he rolls around on the floor dying of laughter for the 879th time this morning.

I only have a son, but I have been around many children in my personal life and my career.  As I am the only present-parent in his life and as I do not victoriously proclaim from the mountain-top for all to hear when I “do the deed”, I begin to wonder, is this a genetic phenomenon which we may attribute to the male species?

In order to delve into this topic a bit more, I feel we must examine the social ramifications of flatulence for both males and females.

I have no doubts that both of the sexes can be just as odiferous as others, but I venture to say that females are stealth-farters while men tend to “share the love”.  Part of their selfless sharing my be due to the fact that they usually eat anything and everything, but beyond that, the act in itself is not shameful or embarrasing for them.  In fact, in some cases, it is the essence of manliness and completely awesome to master the butt trumpet.  Let’s look a little closer at some truths I have gleaned over the years:

Females and Flatulence

Women like to smell good.  Whether we have been socialized to be that way or whether it is inborn, I will never know.  I often change the scent of my shampoo.  My son likes to smell my hair.  Would he like to cuddle up and sniff if I were the Queen of the Fanny Bubble?  I think not.

I believe, however, that women are nurtured as they grow to conform to societal rules regarding niceties: cross your ankles, comb your hair, and for goodness sake, don’t make that noise with your armpit!  Why does it become funny when our little boys run around naked, take school photos with cow-licks, and blast their pits to Kingdom come during the blessing?  “Because boys will be boys”.

Males and Flatulence

**The following have been accepted as fact solely by me based on a lifetime of growing up as the only female in a household of men, being surrounded by more male friends than female friends, engaging in a short (but educational) marriage, and raising a son.  While not scientifically valid, I feel it supports my point.

1.  They see it as an act of intimacy.  They don’t do it while they are courting you (read: not openly).  When you get held under a blanket amidst raucous laughter as you are fumigated by your significant other, instead of becoming angry and petulant, think: He loves me.  He really loves me!

2.  It is obviously a great source of entertainment and bonding among men because it happens most often when men are among other men in a social setting (think beer and football, not opera and dinner).  The bigger the sound, the better.  It is much better than belching.  Belching provides brief entertainment.  Blasting the back-door trumpet provides the same short-term and immediate laugh of the belch, but the entertainment value may last for minutes…or hours depending on the fumigation properties.

3.  They cannot club anyone anymore like a Neanderthal without being jailed.  What is primal and legal?  Right.  The Prehistoric Anal Exhale.

Number 3 appears to be the most important.  I was first enlightened about this form of self-defense by my son when I asked why he liked his “bean bombers” so much.

“It’s in case I need to get away from the bad guys mom.  It’s my deadliest weapon.”

I won’t disagree with you there, son.

Obviously our societal norms dictate this kind of behavior, but I wonder after having spent time with males from a variety of cultural, ethnic, and socio-economic statuses, if something more than mere nurture is at work here.  Being a mother who has tried to take the place of that male influence, I never thought to encourage the nether-belch for hours of endless fun.  It just happened.  There has to be some genetic influence.

I have pondered the hows and whys and it seems I will not have an answer anytime soon.  So like the wonderful mother I am, I will live by the words of Yosemite Sam in Bunker Hill Bunny:

"I'm a Hessian with no aggression..."

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”.

shedding light on what matters

Some bloggers really bring home how shallow some of our thoughts and preoccupations really are:

Iraq: What I remember.

paris hilton is witty – who knew?

Every woman should have four pets in her life. A mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who pays for everything.

PARIS HILTON