The Poop Diet

First things first. I need an author's mug shot for my book, so we are going to get our family portrait taken in two weeks and I'll have him shoot a creative photo of me also. So, I need to lose weight fast, so I have one chin instead of two for the pictures.

Enter the Acai berry craze. Everyone from Oprah to me is hopping on the poop diet bandwagon to lose those unwanted pounds. Combine the Acai berry pills with a colon cleanse pill, and you got double the pleasure.

So we started it two days ago, and I report a slight increase in energy and a radical increase in poop and farts. NOBODY talks about this, although a colon cleanse implies poop. They say we are carrying around an extra 10 to 15 pounds in waste around our colons from past meals. So I say bring on the expensive pills...

Probably should have run this by my shrink; there is probably some negative reaction between the Acai berry and anti-depressants. Oh well, I enjoy a good up period in the bi-polar scale and haven't really had one since I started teaching in 05-06. Isn't that what summers are for?

Inspiration and Motivation

I have decided that I have a few goals. I thought my goal was to become Dr. Ruth all along, in the back of my mind. But I have now let it come forth, and my hubby supports it. I am going to get fired fer sure for publishing the first Thresholds, so after I lose in court, because I will get a lawyer, I will enroll in the grad school of my dreams. I will become Dr. Bleu, Sexologist, and spread the love.

These goals are easy when it is summer and you are a teacher. Seriously. It's fun to lose track of the days, as my Principal orders us to do, and it's fun to have time to reflect. We don't have time to simply reflect on past decisions and to dream of the future.

I have been inspired. Now will I have the motivation to follow through?

Book is to Bed...

...as we say in the journalism field when the final pages of the yearbook get submitted. Kiwi submitted the final batch at 2:20 today, and then we cranked up "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang really loudly and danced around the empty classroom.

I've never had this feeling before: the feeling of closure. In the past 3 years, I've never gotten done on time. EVER. As the faithful reader will remember, I got done in October my first year, in September my second, and in November my third. So, Hallelujah, Amen...I have a full 5 1/2 weeks to look forward to being slovenly.

Slovenly. Dictionary definition is:

Main Entry:

slov·en·ly

Pronunciation:

\ˈslə-vən-lē also ˈslä-\

Function:

adjective

Date:

circa 1568

1 a: untidy especially in personal appearance b: lazily slipshod <slovenly in thought>2: characteristic of a sloven <slovenly habits>

— slo·ven·li·ness noun

— slovenly adverb

OH YEAH. I think I'll shower every third or fourth day, and spend all day social networking until I drop. Plus, I'm working on the finishing touches of Thresholds: and Other Ruminations for the publisher. I have to figure out how to include images, since all my original 300 dpi photos got burned up in the fire. I have them at 72 dpi, but if I crank them up to 300, they turn into little tiny 1 inch photos.

I need to PAUSE, and stop and realize how much I've learned. Enjoy this moment for awhile, and not look to the future and start obsessing about next year already. Take my anti-depressant cocktail and float through the rest of the summer.

Why? Because I am a sloven, and I am a public school teacher. Other teachers have summer jobs and summer goals, but since we are in our lovely house and we are done done done with the 2009 yearbook, I think I'll just chill.

Thank you, Kiwi, for 4 wonderful years. . . you've been there baby, every step of the way. You have a bright future ahead, and I'm pleased to have known you on your journey.

Grrrrrrlfriends

Met with some high school girlfriends last night, and had a luffly time at an old watering hole in the big city. This isn't a big deal for most people, but you see, I am allergic to women. I've always had one or two close girlfriends, and then a slew of male friends. I'm not comfortable with women topics much, like Oprah's Book Club, or which make-up covers up blemishes best, or what shoes to wear with white pants.

I'm much more comfortable saddling up to the TV and watching a good old-fashioned American football game. I know my first down from my P.A.T...and I know when the other team is cheating.

But back to last evening. We sat out on the patio on a cool evening and chatted from 5:30 to 9:00 p.m. We discussed our lives; each giving a report on what's been up since 1986, when we all graduated from college and lost touch. I had a fun tale to tell: got married at 25, had a kid at 28, got divorced at 31, got depressed, got drugs, had a variety of jobs, and ended with being happily married to a wonderful man for ten years.

They wanted to know all about the fire, so I waxed philosophical of the life lessons I think I've learned in the past 5 months. To sum:

1. Shit doesn't matter much, but shit matters greatly.
2. Life is more important than stuff.
3. It's humbling to be on the receiving end of charity.
4. BACK UP your pictures and music and anything that you value, and put it in a safety deposit box.
5. Dissociation is a very comfortable place to be.

So, my grrrlfriends all had life lessons and interesting stories and we had many giggles. Val has the best belly laugh, Terri has the best smile, and Jayne is still the Homecoming Queen in my book. I'd rather have a fire than to go through chemo and radiation due to breast cancer, like Terri, fer sure. I'd rather have a fire than join the Peace Corps (twice) and fight the bugs and sexism in Papua New Guinea like Val.

Time to turn on the TV and catch a Cubbies baseball game.

Back in DA HOOD...

It's good to be back to the old neighborhood, albeit weird to be in a different house on our same lot. At first the house felt like a hotel: all new stuff and none of it familiar. But now, it is truly feeling like home, and my agoraphobia is coming back. I don't wanna leave my house, you gotta take me kicking and screaming away from it now that I finally have it.

I've observed some wonderful small town characters from my front porch since I've been here, also. There are colorful folks in this town: from Judy, the town drunk who drives around on her John Deere Gator, to The Walking Man, who had a breakdown on Wall Street, or so the rumour goes. He walks around town all day every day. He used to never wave much, but now he follows local custom and waves at us. Maybe it's cuz we are now famous because of our fire.

I can't forget Crazy Alberta, the woman who terrorizes the kids from her car -- and who drives like a bat out of hell around town -- she drives past our house at least 5 times a day, if not more. I see her during every other cigarette.

And finally, there's the Man with No Sleeves: the stocky biker dood who rents the crappy house across the street and moves his 3 trucks around his yard to follow the shade...well, one truck doesn't move as it has a nice bed of weeds growing underneath the rusted frame.

Damn it's good to be back. Maybe soon, we can add one eccentric, PUBLISHED author to the local character list. We almost have the money saved to get my innermost thoughts published, and see if the world gives a shit.

When Life Hands you Lemons…

…make lemonade, is how the cliché goes. Well, I say spit on the lemons. I’m exhausted from the clichés: time heals all wounds, God never gives you more than you can handle, and the best yet is maybe this happened for a reason. What reason would there be to have all my worldly shit and four cats burn up?

I’ve heard all of these things over the past 4 ½ months. Balderdash, is what I say. (That’s a fancy term for bullshit, in case one wonders.) Time will never help me get over all of the pictures, yearbooks, and other momentos that define my past that I lost in that raging fire. God gave me WAY more than I can handle, but my psychiatrist gave me the drugs to deal with it. And the only reason I can see for the fire is that we got a bitchin’ new house … so God wants me to be materialistic? I think not.

See, this is where I’ve been stuck for awhile I guess. I am trying like hell to enjoy this brand new sterile house. I truly love it; it has everything I’ve ever wanted in a house; a big kitchen island, an exotic master bathroom, and a big huge basement to store all of our slowly accumulating shit in. We have plenty of love to make the house a home, and we have collected a menagerie of pets (two cats and one bunny) to share our space with.

But what we lack is history. We have no proof of our existence before January 29, 2009. I have a few things that were at school, like my high school wrestling cheerleading pillow, letter, and show choir album to help me remember my youth. But EVERYTHING else is gone, and I’ve yet to cry about it. I see my shrink at the end of this month, on the fifth-month anniversary of the fire. He will say that externally I am well: sleeping right, eating right, and concentrating on life’s tasks. But will he notice that a part of me died in that fire?

Has anybody noticed that my heart seems hardened to this tragedy? Will anybody care that we are all still hurting, in spite of the beautiful new house and its furnishings?

Pass me the rum, think I’ll make me some rum punch with that lemonade.

Tattoos and Stretch Marks

Some may call it a mid-life crisis, but I call it divine inspiration. I want to get a tattoo at the ripe old age of 45. I've never been opposed to tattoos, but I'm afraid of the pain and I've never found the image that I want to permanently etch on my body.

But recent events have made me change my mind. First, I had a brilliant idea. I'm going to ask my real father to draw me up a tattoo -- just as soon as i choose a concept. He's an artist, and I think THAT would be the coolest thing ever. Second, I found a tattoo artist who does very good work. Third, I'm at a place in my life where having a tattoo hidden on my body wouldn't prevent me from being employed. As a matter of fact, in these times, a tattoo would make me even hipper and cooler to the kids.

Only problem is I'm afraid of the droopy, saggy skin that happens with age. I don't want some gross-looking thing on my body in 20 years -- if I'm so lucky to live that long. So, if I place said tatt on my ankle, maybe it will not stretch. Maybe I could brand myself with an image that is meaningful and beautiful and unique.

Now, I think I'll call Rachmo and discuss the pain factor. She's my former student, my twin separated by 20 years, who has a majority of her body covered in tattoos and piercings. I mean, is it little bee stings or is it oh-my-god-that-hurts? This could be the deal breaker, as I'm a colossal wimp; albeit a wimp with a dream.