There have been a few posts on Facebook about the Tooth Fairy visiting certain little kids today, and it made me think about my own experiences losing my baby teeth.
The first tooth I lost, I happened to be in Utah. My tooth was extremely loose, and I was nervous that it would hurt, so I refused to pull on it. I wiggled it plenty, but I didn't want it to actually fall out. We were in town for a family reunion (or funeral) and my uncles teased me relentlessly. My Uncle Allen and my grandpa chased me around my great grandparents' house with pliers and I was so nervous that they were seriously going to rip my tooth out of my face with pliers, that I hid in the bathroom and determined to remove the tooth myself.
My mom came in and helped me do it. It literally took seconds, because it was so loose from me playing with it the whole time, it didn't take much to get it out.
All that worrying for nothing.
The Tooth Fairy was extremely generous. I think I made something between $7 and $10. And that's because each of my uncles and my grandparents all contributed to the fund.
After that, though, I had a whole mouth of teeth, and there was just no way the Tooth Fairy could match what I had made in Utah. In fact, she never did come again. Or, I might have gotten an occasional quarter or so for a few other teeth. But she definitely wasn't consistent.
I guess the Tooth Fairy only has so much to give out, and if she happens to give it to you as an advance, you don't get any more, regardless, of how many teeth you have left.
It's funny how the Tooth Fairy allows for inflation. I swear that even though, after that first tooth, I was only getting nickels or quarters, my younger siblings got dollars. Real DOLLARS. Can you believe it?
I like some of the ideas that I have read online today about giving kids a gold dollar for their tooth. It's nothing extraneous or undeserved, but it is still special and not something that the kid would see on a regular basis. Perfect.
I was flipping through channels last night waiting for a phone call and saw this most recent episode of What Would You Do? It's an interesting hidden camera program that puts people in really awkward positions and films how they would react. For example, the clip above, showing a hoity-toity boutique in New Jersey where the sales lady is being really rude and offensive to a size 14 girl. The sales lady and the girl are actors, and so is the size 4 best friend, but the customers are real and their reactions are very real.
The first lady that they showed who walked over and said, "I'm a customer, but if you come with me, I'll show you some lovely things..." I just loved her. By the end of the three minute segment, she was in tears because she was so angry on behalf of a complete stranger.
I think it hit me even more because I've been in this situation. I was at Nordstrom Rack near Salt Lake, and had quickly noted that there was nothing in my size. So I went rack to rack looking for my sister, who is much smaller than me, and was approached by an employee who simply said, "You won't find anything here for you." She said it with such a tone of disgust and superiority that my whole face flushed in embarrassment and my whole body shook with indignation. I was too humiliated to speak, but I think I managed an apologetic, "I'm not looking for me." She sniffed and walked away and the whole time I just wished I had told her off. I quickly found my sister and hid behind her the remaining tour of the store.
What would I have done if someone had overheard and actually stood up for me? What if I had stood up for myself? I guess I will never really know.
There are times when I enter a new store that I would like to save myself the embarrassment altogether and walk straight up to a clerk and ask, "Do you carry this size?" And if not, walk right out if they say no. I have never had the gumption to do it, and normally just stick to shopping where I know I can find something to try on.
At the beginning of this segment, the narrator talks about how fashion caters to the smaller sizes and for the average American woman, it's hard to keep up and be fashion forward. That much is true. I always say that I would dress much differently if I were smaller (and wealthier), because the things I like vs. the things that are available in my size are very different. I pretty much hate my entire wardrobe. But in the end, as a consumer -- while we are supposed to wield the power with supply and demand -- we have to purchase the things that are available to us. This means a lot of ugly prints, stupid sayings, and more polyester than should ever be legal. It's not like we can walk around naked in protest... Although, maybe we should?
There are some songs that no matter where you are or what time it is, when you hear them, your mind gets transported back to a time or place or just to a person.
Here are a few of those:
(Whitney Houston, Greatest Love of All)
This song takes me back to the house on Frank Street. My mom used to listen to Mix 107.7 and probably a few other stations, and I remember her making Amy and me pancakes and telling us that she was going to be on the radio because she had won some contest. We listened eagerly to hear her voice transmitted over the radio. I can't remember how much she won. There are a few other songs that came out in the early 90s that make me think of us driving around in the station wagon and such.
My best friend in elementary school, Jessica Hobbs, has a few songs that are dedicated to her.
(Ace of Base, The Sign)
We listened to this song while driving to the Miami County Fair. Her mom paid for me to go almost every year, which was SO nice of her, I wouldn't have gone if she hadn't. We went the night where you could buy the bracelets to get on as many rides as your stomach could handle. We rode the tilt-o-whirl until they literally wouldn't let us on anymore, and then Pam would buy us elephant ears or funnel cakes.
We used to listen to Will Smith or Sugar Ray while playing Paper Boy on the Nintendo while eating a cup of Oreos, filled and made soggy by milk, with a spoon.
This was one of the first songs where I learned all the lyrics to. I have a horrible memory, and couldn't remember the lyrics while my friends all sang at the top of their lungs. My memory had room for this song and Torn by Natalie Imbruglia. The two of these songs always take me back to Laura Wharton's house, where we watched Lifetime movies about bulimia and created a baby out of water balloons that we had for a really long time.
And then there was Hanson. Jessica, Heather Ridenour and I had the three boys divided between us, and we all thought they were so cute. I was a fan of Taylor.
When I was growing up, my mom always made us breakfast.
Really, I think she was making breakfast for Dad, and we benefited. She would make scrambled eggs and bacon or French toast or pancakes. Sometimes she made oatmeal with raisins in it. There were waffles. There was rarely cereal.
Around the time of junior high, my sister and I started to get self conscious. We didn't want to go to school smelling like pancakes. We had a good reason, too. Most the time, a friend or person would say that "something smells like pancakes", and we would know that it was us! After all, the hot griddle and the cooking spray made for a really bad perfume. So we asked our mom not to cook so much. Or to warn us when she did, so that we could walk around the house in her robes, trying to keep the smell off of us.
We were lucky that when we started seminary, our house was close enough to the school that we could swing back by after seminary to eat a quick breakfast and finish putting on make-up or clothes. Friends of ours started swinging by too, and suddenly my mom was feeding our cousins and our church friends breakfast.
Whenever I go home, I like when my mom cooks breakfast. She doesn't do it as often, I don't think, because she has since started working and helping out with a grandbaby, and she is a lot busier than when she used to be. But she knows that I like the pancakes with the crispy edges and my waffles to be a little crispier and that I don't put butter on anything. I miss walking down the stairs and seeing my mom standing by a griddle asking us if we want pancakes or waffles.
This morning my roommate decided to make pancakes for breakfast, and she called up asking if I wanted a couple. Of course, I said yes.
When I was younger, my sister, Amy, and I made sure that we plowed through all the neighborhoods, reaping as much candy as possible. We hit every house from the minute the porch lights turned on until past scheduled end time, until every porch light was turned off. We collected pillow cases of candy (though not as much as some of our more ambitious peers). And when we got home, we dumped it all into a giant, collective bowl. The bowl: big, yellow and plastic. It emptied of the good candies first, the chocolates and candy bars, then the licorice and gum drops until finally, the only thing left were those black and orange peanut butter things and the suckers.
We grumbled about putting our candy together, but my mom insisted. Even though Brad and obviously, Mackenzie, couldn't keep up with our feverish pace and didn't collect nearly enough. It didn't seem right that we had to put in all our hard earned candy, when they had only a few suckers to contribute.
That is, we grumbled up until we were too old to participate in Trick-or-Treating. And then we greedily looked forward to the giant yellow communal bowl filled to the brim with the earnings of our younger siblings. Free candy, and we didn't even have to work for it! YES!!!!!!!
Of course, that was the same time my mom decided that the communal bowl didn't have a place in our home anymore. Mark, Brad and Mackenzie all got to take their pillow cases and hide them in their closets, under their beds and in the cupboards.
Amy and I had to beg, bribe and steal the candy. My younger siblings are not often the most generous of kiddos, and after all, they had earned the candy while we had done.... what did we do during high school Halloweens?Anyway, it became a kind of game of how to win the candy from the younger siblings. And a point in our protests against the ill-treatment we suffered being the experimental group of kids. Why did you change your ruling at so (in)convenient a time, Mom? Why?
Now that I'm grown, I can buy candy whenever I want. The bags of trick-or-treating booty have somewhat lost their appeal. In fact, I have a box at work that is filled to the brim, most days, with the good candy, anyway.
I remember snack time in pre-school. Once I got in trouble for slurping my soup. Once we ate green eggs and ham. I remember eating mostly everything they put in front of me... until this.
Ants on a log.
It's supposed to be more appetizing to kids when you give healthy food a fun name. I took a bite, and I wanted to spit it back out immediately. So while all the other kids devoured their logs and picked off their ants, I ate the ants, licked out the peanut butter and left the celery behind.
I hate celery. I don't like it in anything. It ruins the tastes of salads. It is gross in soups. The only celery I don't really mind, is celery salt. And I'm pretty sure that doesn't count. However, I used to feel the same way about lasagna and avocados. And since I love both of those things now, I every once and a while feel like I need to give celery another chance.
And I always want to spit it out.
It's a good thing celery is cheap. Because I bought a thing of it last night, thinking I needed something green for the day. I washed it carefully, making sure I did not have any traces of dirt. I smelled it (and turned up my nose) and then I decided to try the old ants on a log, and I grabbed the peanut butter.
It took everything in me to not just lick out the peanut butter. I finished almost a whole one of these --->
but I couldn't do it. I just don't like it!
Sorry celery. You nasty.
P.S:
HAHAHA... oh my goodness. You won't believe what I just discovered about celery. I stole the picture from the website and decided to read it after I finished typing this up. It doesn't change how I feel about the vegetable, though.
I hope you had a wonderful weekend! It is no secret that one of my favorite foods that I often tout is our humble, common friend: Celery.
When people tell me they thought it was “just full of water,” it gives
me the perfect lead-in to say, “No, no, no!” Celery is high in
potassium, a necessary electrolyte which helps with cellular cleansing
and fluid levels, and since it is a natural diuretic, helps keep blood
pressure normal. It also has Vitamin C. Ha! But you’ve heard about me talk about all that stuff before! You want to know about the Viagra mention!! Well in my quest to reduce the alarming amount of medications and
drugs that proliferate across the Western world, I thought I would take a
little stab at the increasingly popular Viagra. It is still a drug, it
still has lots of side affects and dangers (possibly affecting vision,
causing heart attacks, etc.) and it still compromises our liver- as all
medications do. According to an exhaustive study of purported aphrodisiac foods, celery is the “sexiest” substance on Earth. It
has a combination of Vitamin E, magnesium, niacin, potassium and zinc,
which are all required for optimum sex. Celery also contains arginine,
which is an amino acid that expands blood vessels the way Viagra is
supposed to do. And while we are on this topic, I might point out that
arginine also increases blood flow to the um, female genitalia when
ladies consume celery, making the female genitalia more responsive. Viagra ‘aint doing that!! Lastly, celery has an aroma which contains the two steroids called
androsterone and adrostenol. Research has shown that when we ingest
celery, the subtle odor of these two natural chemicals travels through
our bodies and works to attract the opposite sex. Single? Trying to get a
date? You might just want to eat a few celery stalks before you head
out on the town. And my friends that have been consuming my
celery-containing Glowing Green Smoothie- you might just want to offer some to your spouse, girl/boy friend, and see what that does for them!
4 Stalks a day keeps Viagra away!
Of course, celery does relax the
muscles that regulate blood pressure, and improves blood flow. This also
helps with our beauty needs, like helping to reduce undereye circles
which indicate stagnant blood and adrenal exhaustion.
So yes, Viagra is just one more unnecessary drug that we probably can do without in many cases, especially when we have celery!! Have a great start to your week.
xx Kimberly
In eighth grade, I had this amazing history teacher. His name was Mr. Roberts and he was an assistant coach on the high school football team and helped with weight lifting for many of the other sports teams (I think.)
He was amazing because he made history come alive and while I had always -- and still do -- loved history, I knew several people in my class that didn't share the same passion. But then Mr. Roberts would roll out his own personal stocks and he would put some kid in there for a day. He had his own guillotine, and he used newspaper Halloween masks to perform beheadings of King Henry the VIII's different wives.
For one of my favorite projects, Mr. Roberts placed a crown on his head and declared himself the King of England, put us in companies that were off to settle America and had us write journals as to how we prepared for the voyage across the Atlantic. If we didn't mention in our journals that we had brought dried fruit, he would tell us that we got scurvy. Once we reached the colonies, if we didn't sign a peace treaty with the Chief (also Mr. Roberts, wearing a headdress) then the Indians would poison our water source or burn down our fort. The company that lasted the longest won. We got to name our ships, and I'm pretty sure that we got bonus points if we named our ship after a Beatles reference.
During the Revolutionary War unit, we had to make a Colonial newspaper. I had fun coming up with different Classifieds and writing the obituaries. We had to interview one of the Patriots.
And then in the Spring, class shut down and we didn't do any learning through activities and presentations, group projects and crazy stunts from Mr. Roberts. Instead, we had boring lectures and flash cards, all presenting the information that we needed in order to complete the standardized test that was coming up. Every single one of us hated those two weeks and the test afterward. I still hate standardized tests, because I do not take them well. Mr. Roberts was as stressed as we were. We were yelled at for talking when throughout the year we had done nothing but laugh as we learned.
In Washington D.C. on Sunday, there was a SAVE OUR SCHOOLS rally. Matt Damon flew in to speak because his mother, a long-time teacher, asked him to speak. His speech was empowering, I think, and worth reading.
“I flew overnight from Vancouver to be with you today. I landed in New York a few hours ago and caught a flight down here because I needed to tell you all in person that I think you’re awesome.
I was raised by a teacher. My mother is a professor of early childhood education. And from the time I went to kindergarten through my senior year in high school, I went to public schools. I wouldn’t trade that education and experience for anything.
I had incredible teachers. As I look at my life today, the things I value most about myself — my imagination, my love of acting, my passion for writing, my love of learning, my curiosity — all come from how I was parented and taught.
And none of these qualities that I’ve just mentioned — none of these qualities that I prize so deeply, that have brought me so much joy, that have brought me so much professional success — none of these qualities that make me who I am … can be tested.
I said before that I had incredible teachers. And that’s true. But it’s more than that. My teachers were EMPOWERED to teach me. Their time wasn’t taken up with a bunch of test prep — this silly drill and kill nonsense that any serious person knows doesn’t promote real learning. No, my teachers were free to approach me and every other kid in that classroom like an individual puzzle. They took so much care in figuring out who we were and how to best make the lessons resonate with each of us. They were empowered to unlock our potential. They were allowed to be teachers.
Now don’t get me wrong. I did have a brush with standardized tests at one point. I remember because my mom went to the principal’s office and said, ‘My kid ain’t taking that. It’s stupid, it won’t tell you anything and it’ll just make him nervous.’ That was in the ’70s when you could talk like that.
I shudder to think that these tests are being used today to control where funding goes.
I don’t know where I would be today if my teachers’ job security was based on how I performed on some standardized test. If their very survival as teachers was based on whether I actually fell in love with the process of learning but rather if I could fill in the right bubble on a test. If they had to spend most of their time desperately drilling us and less time encouraging creativity and original ideas; less time knowing who we were, seeing our strengths and helping us realize our talents.
I honestly don’t know where I’d be today if that was the type of education I had. I sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I do know that.
This has been a horrible decade for teachers. I can’t imagine how demoralized you must feel. But I came here today to deliver an important message to you: As I get older, I appreciate more and more the teachers that I had growing up. And I’m not alone. There are millions of people just like me.
So the next time you’re feeling down, or exhausted, or unappreciated, or at the end of your rope; the next time you turn on the TV and see yourself called “overpaid;” the next time you encounter some simple-minded, punitive policy that’s been driven into your life by some corporate reformer who has literally never taught anyone anything. … Please know that there are millions of us behind you. You have an army of regular people standing right behind you, and our appreciation for what you do is so deeply felt. We love you, we thank you and we will always have your back.”
(Via the Washington Post)
Not every teacher I had was amazing. But I can say that I had more good teachers than bad teachers. And I believe I can still name them all. For a long time, I was one of those weird kids that enjoyed school and it was because of these special teachers that loved and believed in what they were doing. For a while, I have debated about whether or not I wanted to become a licensed teacher. If I do, I want to be the kind of teacher that Mr. Roberts was for 90% of the school year. Not the kind of teacher that he had to be in order to make sure we passed those tests. And that was when I was in eighth grade. My sister who graduated just a year behind me, had more tests to take than I did.
As a nation, we can't continue to think that standardized testing is a way to dictate our school systems. It stifles creativity and learning. No wonder the kids of today depend so heavily on video games and the media to provide entertainment.
The Neighborhood Apartments finally opened up their pool. I've lived here for almost a year, and I didn't actually believe that the pool would ever be open, but I did call a few times... (ok, like four times) and kept asking what the status was. I thought they were just trying to give excuses and were probably going to put it off until next year or something.
But no. On Thursday I got a text from my roommate, first one and then a few hours, another, that said "THE POOL IS OPEN!"
I was sooooo happy, and a little bit surprised and definitely skeptical. But when I got home from the Relief Society Activity that night (we made Halloween cards for the juvenile detention center to send out to family members in October) there was a sign that said that the pool was open!
I happily went and jumped in. Not literally, at first. I'm more of a gradual enter-er.
I've been to the pool everyday (except Sunday) since. And it has been glorious. And I even have a tan. Ok, not a tan. But a tan line! And I smell like chlorine and sunblock. And I wish I were in the pool right now! The pool is a bit small, and it is still really slippery -- Do not lean up against the wall, or you will find yourself unceremoniously on the bottom of the pool and inhaling way more water than you ought to.
On Saturday, we went and bought noodles and rafts. And I hope that they are still there after the summer rainstorm that blew by tonight (ruining my plans for a night swim).
I don't think I have been able to enjoy a pool this much since I was younger and my mom bought us pool passes to the city pool. My sister and I would walk there and spend the entire day over there swimming happily for hours and hours. Even when our lips were blue and the lifeguards were yelling at us to "please leave!" we refused.
There are some songs that still remind me of the days and hours we spent at Troy City Pool. Every time I hear Collective Soul or Savage Garden I'm immediately back to the adult swims where we sat at the edge of the pool waiting to be able to jump in, or at the ghetto snack bar getting licorice ropes or snow cones.
I'm so glad that I have a pool available to me again, and I can't wait to go swimming tomorrow! Eeek! I just love the summer!
I don't know how many times I have uttered, confessed, threatened and spouted these words. Or for how long. Though, I know that it was long before junior high school and continued well into my years in college. I associated country music with the likes of Travis Tritt, Randy Travis and Conway Twitty. Whatever that awful stuff that my dad took home in the form of cassette tapes from my Grandma's "successes" at garage sales and would then torture us on the way back from Lexington... I hated it.
And then out came artists like Martina McBride, Shania Twain, etc. Talented, yes. Beautiful, of course. But awful music! (I still hate the majority of her songs.) What is it about country artists that are obviously talented, but make some of the worst song choices ever?!
There has always been the occasional country song that one of my friends would listen to, and it was either catchy or whatever, and I would like it. But the genre as a whole, yiiiick.
Until, one day... it wasn't.
I think it has been a gradual process that was inevitable. After all, I was born in Kentucky. I have hillbilly roots, and it shouldn't be a surprise that I would eventually come to love that, and accept it. And then, of course, there are the calendars like Studs*N*Spurs, which my friend, Sabrina, so kindly gifted to me to years in a row. Sure, the models are all probably gay. But that doesn't make a shirtless cowboy in chaps any less attractive...
I remember being 16 and working at Bob Evans with the "Dream Team" - Adam Galley and me running the host stand and the cash register. I liked Adam, a lot. I found out that he was a HUGE Garth Brooks fan, and so I got into my parents' CDs and pulled out the two albums they owned of his. I hated it. You can't hate I've Got Friends in Low Places, but I really didn't like his other songs. I couldn't handle the twang.
Still, through the years, more and more country songs leaked onto my playlists, anyway. Artists like Dierks Bentley and Josh Turner made me perk up my ears. Music that I wouldn't listen to on the radio, I was suddenly watching the music videos on GAC and CMT. I also happened to read a few books that, while romanticized (one might even call them romances...), were about Old West cowboys... and well, I was a goner after that.
There's something about the southern charm and gentle respect that I just find to be absolutely attractive. I've always liked that slow southern drawl. And yes, a good fitting pair of jeans....
Plus, there's the fact that the celebrity country artists are surprisingly put together. They don't seem to be nearly as crazy as the rest of the pop star and reality television world. Yes, there's the scandalous LeAnn Rimes, and whatnot. But if you look at others, they've been married to their husbands and wives for years and years with no sign of trouble for the time being. It's encouraging.
I still hate some of the really gay country songs. But others like Then by Brad Paisley, or I Wanna Make You Close Your Eyes by Dierks, or She Wouldn't Be Gone by Blake Shelton... I just love them. The songs are sweet and sentimental, they're patriot and talk about God and more and more I find my radio on the country stations than I do any of the others.
It's very strange.
But it's not only music. I love the rustic, country looks. I love lace and burlap and weathered wood. And horses. (Will someone PLEASE take me horseback riding?) My grandma made this adorable cowboy quilt, and I've already called dibs. That quilt belongs to my unborn son... If he ever comes.
My newest favorite scent comes from Bath and Body Works and is called Country Chic. It's fabulous.
I guess my point is, you will not hear me using the above phrase ever again. I thought I would be more ashamed by this confession, but I'm not. I'm OK with it. I've accepted this about myself. I like country.
I like country music.
Ok, it's still a little weird admitting it. But I'm definitely going to embrace it from now on.
When we were little kids, my Grandma Armstrong used to bring us bags and bags of clothes that she would pick up on her weekly garage sale hunting. As younger kids, we looked forward to these bags of "new" clothes with excitement. One never knew exactly what Grandma would find. But as we got older and more self-conscious about what we were wearing and worse, where it came from, we started to be more picky and less grateful for the trash bags of treasures.
My grandma was very crafty. She wore shoes and vests and hats that she had puff-painted and had scads of buttons on everything. One of the things that she seemed to find for me at the garage sales were vests. Lots of vests! I remember particularly the ones that looked as though they had been quilted together and had buttons and bows and such.
My dad told us that if we didn't appreciate the items Grandma gave us, then we had to tell her ourselves. So one particular visit to Lexington, I told her. "Grandma, I do not like vests."
She made me try on her newest find anyway.
"I won't wear this," I said. "I really do not like vests."
And then she made a prophecy that I cringed at.
"You've just got to find the right one," she said, taking the vest from my arms and draping it over the recliner in her bedroom.
I didn't believe her. I swore never to wear a vest again.
I think about that conversation with my grandma every time I put on the black vest I like so much. It is drape-y and forgiving, and kind of cool. And I got it for less than $5. I think Grandma would be proud - although, she probably would have haggled down the price to 50 cents. I thought about it again when this past weekend I found a sheer, crocheted top and flow-y, tiered looking vest that I just had to have. I think it is one of my favorite purchases in a while. Although, I paid more than Grandma would have ever paid for it.
Grandma was right though. It just took the right vest - and for vests to come back in style - before I went against my vow to never put one on again. Who knew that she was a prophetess?
For one of my fine arts credits at Edison, I took pottery. Ceramics I and Ceramics II: Hand-building and The Wheel. I think they were both half semester classes that lasted two or three hours long.
It was one of the greatest college courses I have ever taken. There is something so therapeutic about throwing clay around and kneading out all the air. I can remember almost every project I made in that class. Some were a bit better than others. I still have the pinch pot I made... it was one of the firsts, and would have looked significantly better if I had learned some of the techniques I learned just a few projects later.
My favorite was my teapot. I have no idea where it is. Probably crushed somewhere in storage.
I took the class with my friend Sabrina and another kid from my high school. Our teacher was Jim Wanzel, local ceramics pro and genuine hippie. He told us the craziest stories about stabbing people with pencils and how he was sure the neighbors were abusing their dogs. I'm pretty sure he had been arrested more than once, and maybe in prison a time or two... I can't remember for sure. He was a very easy going teacher, though, and I enjoyed his methods of teaching. I think we only had to write one two-page paper, and there was never any homework assignments, except maybe one vocabulary sheet, and the lectures were always spent in front of the clay.
I think our projects were our finals. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.
I liked that Sabrina and I could go in and change the 80s boombox stereo he had sitting in the other room to whatever station we chose. Well, Sabrina was particularly adamant that we choose 103.9 (I think) the... (what kind of music is it...) hard rock, screaming-type music. Of course, it was where I was introduced to Seven Nation Army, by the White Stripes, which is still a favorite for me today. We turned it up as loud as we wanted and no one in our class and certainly not Jim, ever told us to turn it down or try another station.
We were allowed to do a few free-thought projects, where we could do whatever we wanted. Now I spent my time creating the cutest little turkey (recently shattered turkey... so sad) for Thanksgiving. After all, there are not nearly enough Thanksgiving decorations in the world.
While I was working on my turkey, other members of our class were working on much more interesting projects. One lady was making ceramic pieces that each had a hole at the top, where they could be strung up into a mobile. The pieces were in the shapes of a joint, a pot leaf and various other drug paraphernalia. Another person, I'm pretty sure, was creating a ceramic bong. I could be wrong... after all, this was some eight years ago, and I'm pretty positive that Sabrina, the other guy and myself were the most talented in the class. I don't know if there was anyone really skilled enough, besides Jim, that could pull it off.
But this I do know: I learned about the very special (and very superfluous) holiday of 4.20. Jim didn't seem to mind what his students were creating.
I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had mastered the ceramic drug paraphernalia long ago...although he doesn't have anything advertised on his website (that I just found). Even more, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he and these particular students did a little "pot throwing" after hours.
I really do miss ceramics, though and I would love to get back behind the wheel and try my hand at creating another mug or bowl or something. I wasn't particularly talented at it, but 16 weeks isn't really enough time to really develop a skill.... sigh. I don't know when I will ever have access to a kiln again in my life.
I usually do not like blog posts about people's health. But I can see why people do it. After all, when you are sick, you feel absolutely miserable and it is a call for help and for sympathy.
I never get sick. Not really. Or at least, that is what I like to tell myself. I get run-down and worn out and occasionally a sniffle or two will show up to tell me that my body does not appreciate being sleep deprived. However, every once and a great while, I get miserably sick.
While I am sure there were times before this, I remember fairly distinctly coming home from Church one Sunday and demanding that my mom pull over the car (just by the railroad track bridge that you have to go under when headed from Troy to the church building...) so I could cast up my accounts. I was humiliated. But of course, I was also running a terrible fever - which is fairly miraculous in and of itself, because my family seems to hardly ever get a fever when we are supposed to. Except Mark, who has gone to the hospital several times for a really high temperature. I remember laying on the couch with a cold compress on my head, wrapped tightly in blankets, watching The Cutting Edge while my mom ran to the store to get medicine. It is the only time I remember my mom shopping on Sunday.
I'm pretty sure I went to school the next day (third grade with Mrs. Lemkeuhl) and having to go home early because I was still feeling poorly. And I think I was out a week.
I remember being out of commission for pink eye. I got sick once on Christmas Eve and had to stay home from the live nativity (I think). And I definitely got sick one year on New Year's Eve. I remember we were down in Kentucky for that one, and on the drive back, I was curled up into a ball with the chills and about three blankets piled on me one minute, and then extreme heat flashes the next. Once I had strep throat - no fever, and I still maintained regular eating and drinking habits (I was told, however, to stay away from deep-throat kissing). I had a cough that lasted for 6 weeks to 6 months... I can't really remember. Two years ago, I'm fairly certain (through a neighborhood nurse's diagnosis) I had the piggy flu for three days.
And that's it. I really don't get that sick.
It's a good thing, too, because when I am sick, I am a complete baby. I want to disappear from all responsibilities and sit in my bed... No, scratch that. I would rather have someone pushing me around in a wheelchair as I wheeze and cough, looking at English roses and such, with a blanket over my legs and a shawl wrapped around my shoulders.
Because I really, really hate feeling like I am going to pass out and throw up at the same time while my chest rattles and my cough gives me a major headache. I hate the feeling of having been in bed all day because my muscles are sore, and I can't tell if it is because I am sick or because I've been in bed all day. I had the stuffiness. And the heat flashes that turn into chills. I don't like being uncomfortable, and there is nothing more uncomfortable than being sick.
Especially when you know you have to go to work in the morning. On the plus side, liquid medicine does not usually bother me. You know people who hate cherry flavored candy because it tastes like cough syrup? I love cherry flavored candy. The kind that I bought for my chest cold is not the best tasting, but it certainly isn't as bad as all that. It's sitting here on my nightstand, just waiting for three more hours to pass so I can take my next dosage.
In first grade, I spelled "blue" wrong on a spelling test. I spelled it bleu. My mom was in the hospital because she had just had Bradley. So we didn't get a chance to study for my spelling test much. And even before, I kept reversing the letters. I spelled it wrong and felt dumb. But I was more excited about my baby brother to care that much.
In fourth grade, I was in the school spelling bee. I got out in the first round because I spelled "c-o-n-t-a-i-n-e-r" wrong. I'm still not sure how I spelled it. And when I double-checked with some friends in the audience, I could spell it fine. I chalked it up to nerves.
In fifth grade, we had spelling homework where we had to take 10 of our spelling words, write a sentence and then draw a picture.
I chose the word: attach
"The man attached the woman."
I drew a picture similar to this. I still remember Mrs. Subert's lecture to the class about how we needed to do our homework and put effort in it. And to make sure we knew what the word actually was. I didn't feel dumb, though, I just thought it was funny.
I don't think the picture and sentence would have changed that much, though.
It was a tradition of sorts for the youth of the Piqua Ward to go to Friendly's after a stake dance for ice cream. Not just any ice cream, of course, but for candy shoppe sundaes of the most delicious variety. My favorite being the Reese's Pieces. (And yes, we pronounced it Ree-sees Pee-cees.)
I drove the car shown above in high school. Really, Bessie deserves her own post, but that will have to come later. Amy and I were driving in said car, Bessie, and sitting at a stoplight on the I-75 overpass. We were listening to music, and reliving the (not-so-)exciting things that had happened at the dance. Happily sated with our ice cream - Amy probably not quite full with her five-scoop - when a car of boys pulled up beside us.
"Hey!" They yelled.
We ignored them.
"Hey, beautiful," they said again, trying to get Amy's attention. More whistles, more cat calls. Amy stared straight ahead.
Finally I turned to look at them.
"Not you," the driver said with a tone of juvenile disgust.
"I know," I said, returning the irritation in my voice.
And then the light turned green and they sped off. I ignored the flush that crept to my cheeks. And the sorry look on Amy's face, that I mistook for pity.
"Idiots," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed, keeping my eyes straight ahead.
We returned home. I am sure it was after curfew. (Amy and I were never very good at keeping curfew.) Told our parents good night and started getting ready for bed.
I started playing basketball in third grade. Third grade is when Troy Junior Basketball, the city league allows you to start playing. Or at least, when my parents discovered the league. In any rate, it's when I started playing. I grew up around basketball. My dad played for church and with his brothers and pretty much any opportunity he got. He coached the young men's basketball team. My mom also played for church. Saturdays during basketball season were especially busy, one game after the next at the stake center.
When I turned 12 and was allowed to play on the young women's team, I happily played both on the city league and for church. It was really fun that year. Our young women's team was good. There were so many of us that wanted to play, we had to have two teams. That also meant that we got to play games on Saturday, and legit scrimmages during the week for practice. We had pink jerseys. It was so great!
When I started junior high, I wanted to play for school. My dad played for school. My cousins played for school. I was going to play. But there were a few things to worry about.
In Troy, fifth and sixth graders can be put on the "traveling team." The team gets to travel around and play different teams of the same age in different cities, rather than just remaining in Troy playing against the other Troy girls. You also had to be recruited or try out for the traveling team. But this team always played their games on Sunday. I'm sure that I wasn't good enough to play on the team, anyway, but the fact that they played on Sunday ensured that I didn't even try. But it was usually those girls that got positions on the school teams. It also allowed the different girls from different elementary schools to bond and become friends, long before I had a chance.
Not only that, but Troy offers basketball camps during the summer. I never participated in these. I am sure it was partially because I was the oldest, and my parents didn't know much about them, and partially because we were poor and couldn't afford the fees. (I wore boy's Wal Mart basketball shoes because they were cheaper.)
So, I wasn't on the traveling team and I didn't attend the camps. Those two things combined made it a losing situation when I walked into the gym after school for try-outs. But that wasn't the only thing that hurt me. Basketball season was really the only activity I participated in once it turned cold. I rode my bike and went to the swimming pool everyday during the summer, but for the most part, I was a chunky little kid with zero running ability. I'd half-walked every mile I had to run in gym, and I was incredibly slow. I loved basketball, but I was mediocre.
The first day of try-outs must have been meant to weed out the kids that didn't belong. And before the second drill, I was convinced that I was one of those people. The girls that had been on the traveling team also happened to be the prettiest, smartest - soon to be most popular - girls in the school (in my eyes). The coaches knew them. And I was convinced I would never make the team.
And I was dying.
They had us run! so much during the first day of try-outs, that I was sure I was going to pass out. Why didn't they ask to see our defensive skills? Why didn't they ask us to do lay-ups? I don't know. But they didn't. Instead they made us run. I was slow, and I was last. And I was embarrassed. So in the middle of suicides, long before try-outs were even over, I reached the end of the court, and I ran right out the door. I didn't look back to see the reaction of the coaches, I prayed that they wouldn't even notice. And then I hid until my mom came to pick me up.
I can't remember if I cried or not, but I wouldn't be surprised. I was an overly-emotional teenager. I told my mom that I would not be going back the next day, and she didn't make me.
To this day I wonder what would have happened if I had just stuck it through. Would I have made the team? I'm sure I would have sat the bench. There were so many talented basketball players in my grade. But if I had made the team, maybe I would have had a chance to get better. I definitely would have been in better shape during school with all the running and the eventual weight lifting they have the athletes participate in. It's probably my biggest regret from school.
And yet, I haven't learned. When I am in an embarrassing situation, my first reaction is to flee. Even if the greater good means to stay put and get through it.
