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Identity Crisis

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Do you ever get hit upside the head by a reality of yourself that you didn’t recognize? I’ve been studying issues of culture in one form or another since pretty early and formally beginning in high school. I know all the dimensions of communication. Okay, some. The field has advanced since 1999 when I buried my head under a rock contrary to the way I tote out my intercultural background when writing grants. Anyway, I am SO polychronic when I thought I was entirely monochronic.

What else do I not recognize about myself? I like to try new ideas on for size, but, guess what, I have a low risk tolerance. Honestly, I have no clue who I am and it’s causing uncertainty in my interpersonal interactions. I’m having some major communication huh-whats as of late and I think it’s because I’m being all high context when I should hang low for a while.

And so now my attempt at being more low context while holding true to my need for a great deal of field dependence, face-saving, and conflict resolution. How do I say this without offending the offensive? By that, I mean how can I say this without having to deal with these actual people anymore ever? Person 1, quit taking money from hungry people because you want fancy drapes. Person 2, is it possible that you could put your offense/defense in your pocket for a second and look at the community surrounding you? You are loved, but your targets can sometimes get hurt. Persons 3 and 4, maybe YOUR children need therapy because you’ve closed their minds. Oh, and look up jingoistic. I think you are using it incorrectly.

This is what helped me sleep this past week. It’s so wrong, it’s right.


This was the second place winner in craftster.org’s ironic cozy contest.

Know Your Farmer

Oh, okay. Well, does this AP story bother anyone else? Makes you want to know your farmer. If you think you might like, you can read the FDA draft and then make public comments for the next couple of months.

And as a refresher, you can read labels on your produce too to see if you are consuming genetically engineered food.

Just so you know how this came to my brain, I was reading Nature Moms Blog and this item was mentioned in one of the comments. I followed the story to get to an “unbiased” news source.

The Club that Would Have Me

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Pssst. I joined the PTA this year after three years of bitter derision of said group and their conviction that a marque will solve the problems faced by the public schools. Actually I joined the PTO, which is code for “we don’t want to pay national dues.” My story is that I was at registration when I spilled coffee all over my t-shirt, which was my favorite summertime activity. I have at least four coffee splattered shirts. Make that three since I freezer paper stencil painted one for Mz. Molly, on whom I and and others have a girl crush. She is so way cute, but I think it’s her juiced up bike that makes me feel all tingly inside.

Back to PTO/registration day – I was a hot mess (not the Paris Hilton kind but the kind involving a splashy mess of hot liquid) when I noticed the t-shirt table staffed by the PTO president. She told me I could get a discount on school t-shirts if I joined the PTO, so, well, there you have it. Had I known Alex was planning on being the secretary, I would have joined just so I could make faces at her as she attempted all things secretarial. OH, but that’s the best part. The PTO prez said I would only be as involved as I wanted to be. Therefore, if I couldn’t attend the meetings, she wouldn’t make me! YAY! No commitment beyond the cash donation.

Membership has its privileges. For example, doing nothing and discounts on shirts. I also got into movie night for free. It was there that I went in cahoots with my favorite partner in crime, whose name I will not mention, but Anna knows who she is, to break into my son’s 3rd grade classroom to install screen maps of the US and the world. Anna is going to get me into serious trouble one day. She already got me into a clay building class when I didn’t take the prerequisite – a fact that didn’t pass unnoticed by a biddy or two.

Oh, but anyway. I just thought that I would say it loud and proud; I am Sarah Palin. Except that I don’t shoot wolves from helicopters and I don’t wear lipstick and I’m not all that fond of pitt bulls and it’s a well known fact I came in last place in the only beauty contest I ever entered. Come to think on it, except for my PTO membership, Tina Fey glasses, and vagina, I’m really not much like Palin at all. And that will make it very easy for me to join Wampus Against Sarah Palin. Sadly, WASP membership indicates obvious social climbing on my part.

One last note: Do not counterfeit this membership card for if you so choose to do so choose, then you will find yourself embroiled in major discussions about the relative benefits of nothing and every freaking thing and are also committing to spam out the ying yang.

Can’t Win For Losing

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Oh, how my head aches as I write this.

I had big plans for the day, but they were sidelined for multiple “right now” needs. I decided to go with it. Besides the only thing I MUST do today has been stalled by YELLOW HIGHLIGHTER. Point is, I found myself at the grocery store because the cupboard was bare and I happened to be driving past. I needed gasoline too.

So I do my grocery shopping child-free. That NEVER happens. It was nice. I bought less junk and didn’t have to say “no” a single time. I am a bring-my-own-bags gal and for the first time ever they noticed that one was insulated and put all my cold stuff in it (it’s still hot in the desert). I didn’t even have to repack. YAY, lady sacker! The guy after me had a single jar of salsa. The sacker asked if he wanted a bag. “Yes,” he replied, “double it.” Asswipe. I had four bags, he should have quadrupled it. Such inspiration am I.

Then I went to get my gasoline. The tanks were being filled and I know that I don’t want all that stirred up crap in my tank. I also know that the light is on in the van signaling I have no gas and if I don’t use my coupon, it will expire. So I fill up. I fill up so much that I just pour it all over the ground. The little automatic lever, which I put on the first divit for a slow fill, didn’t click off. Gas on the ground, gas on the car, gas on my shoe.

Anyway, I’m an ecological disaster with a headache.

School Houses Rock!

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Get past the Border Patrol Ad, okay?

This was my son’s teacher last year! This was her! Teachers are so way cool. Molly is so way cool. Molly can teach AND double dutch. And guess what, she’s going to have a community garden WITH CHICKENS at the school. I miss Molly.

I’ve been concerned about my son’s teacher this year. She’s more traditional and worksheet oriented. As it turns out, she is also empathetic and her students like her. She also lets us parents come in and knock around whenever we want. She’s letting me teach the students about current events. This week the 3rd graders READ THE CONSTITUTION as it pertains to the presidency. Can you imagine? All that language? But they did it and they know what qualifies a candidate for the presidency and what the duties are. Of course they were mostly interested in the part about forgiving their buddies and throwing parties for foreign dignitaries. Toward the end of the lesson, we touched on the electoral collage (S + R = E, did you know that? The presidency is not just a history/civics thang, it’s also math/geography). Next week are going to go into campaigns and eventually we will look at the current candidates. I’ll keep you posted, because I’m sure you are on the edge of your seats to know what the kids are saying.

On Friday, another parent is coming in with her bassoon to help the kids with their sound studies. Yet another parent has made tons of homemade playdough to help the students better conceptualize city, state, country, etc. And yet another parent is bringing in tons of related texts and may start an art project. So, it’s still cool this year, though it’s hard to top Molly. I wish every child could experience a classroom where the teacher and a large number of parents frequently indulge in active learning and engaging children.

One thing I should learn is how to post a video that doesn’t immediately start playing every time the website opens. Sorry about that. I hope next time you visit, you won’t mind hitting the pause button.

Glue Batik with Family

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Last night I spent a couple of hours trying to put together a clever, well-narrated, and inspirational slide show together to express on my blog how much freaking fun we had with this freaking glue batik project. (Tomorrow is “F***ing Friday”, so even at this late hour, it’s just “Freaking Thursday”.) Long story short, it didn’t work and you’re stuck with this.

Credit where due. Please visit That Artist Woman to see the the real deal tutorial on easy kid friendly batik. OH! Her latest post is batik for grown-ups. It’s pretty cool too.

So, here goes….

Step 1: Find a beautifully lash-ed, juice mustache-ed girl of six to agree to model and volunteer her family for a nutty mom project. Give everyone some gel school glue to make designs on some cheap old pillowcase. I put cardboard inside the pillowcase to prevent soak through issues, but then I got stuck to issues. That’s okay, because it all comes off; next time I’ll cover the cardboard or use a plastic cutting board or one of those rubber place mats or something. Anyway, let dry.

Step 2: Use watered-down acrylic paint and, you know, cover the dried glue designed fabric as you please. Initially I watered down with a 4:1 ratio of paint to water, but I think a 1:1 makes for more of a watercolor effect. My fear was dissolving the glue with the paint, but as it turns out I needn’t have worried. I thought I was genius for using the cracked ice tray as the whachamacallit for the paint. The cup of blue liquid is leftover Kool-aid from the yard sale Kool-aid stand and isn’t paint. The Cortaid was required after the yard sale too. I’m still bitchy – ITCHY. I totally meant itchy. Anyway, let dry.

Step 3: Once the glue and paint have dried, DUNK THAT PUPPY! That Artist Woman suggests using your tub and after taking her up on her advice, I totally concur. I wasn’t patient enough to let the glue slowly dissolve. I agitated it. My kids taught me the fine art of agitation, so I was really good at it. It’s better than picking scabs and popping zits! Oh, my so satisfying. Anyway, let dry and call maid service. WAIT! I am the maid! Grrr. I hate contingencies.

We agreed that the family member with the crappiest day gets to sleep with the pillowcase. My sincere hope is that the kids will adore having the pillowcase in their bed and so won’t come into mine. I’m tired of knees and elbows in my back and up my nose. But he’s my husband and I knew that went with the territory. The kids have their own beds and should use them.

Buy My Friends’ Way Cool Stuff

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My pal Tracy is selling at auction this silvery cheeked hornbill and macaw feathered, white buckskin with detachable seed beaded handle, peoyte pow wow fan. Maybe I didn’t sell it right, but the part that’s the best is that Tracy is nothing if not practical. Therefore, this fan moves air. She will custom bead the darn thing too! Tracy is a member of the Caddo Tribe in Oklahoma and my algebraic bff from back in the day when we ignored equations in favor of geometric applications to friendship bracelets. Finally, without being related to anything, she has shampoo commercial hair and crystal clear skin.

Oh, but Tracy isn’t my only gifted artist friend. I have tons, and another one selling her wares is Anneliese. The girl has an etsy store. She’s also a friend from high school, but she did real math and was even a member of Mu Alpha Theta. Of course, it did nothing to cure her of her quirky greatness.

If you’ve been following, and I presume you haven’t, I am pro-handmade gifts. I’m not prepared to make, give, or sell my own goods, so I have to do some searching. I found this Indie Collective that may help expand my shopping sources of handmade goodness.

ON EDIT: Tracy gets her fan handles from waste at new home and remodel construction sites. She sells them just like that too. Her feathers are naturally molted and cruelty free. So, see? Way cooler than I expressed. And she has photos of herself with her grandmother and a table of fans.

A Bird Pooped on My Head

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This is regurgitated from my old blog, which has privacy settings as I still like to be saucy and only care for my good buddies to know it. For this reason, the repost is somewhat edited – okay a lot edited. I hope it still makes sense. I wanted to post it because I ran across a blog that is freakishly familiar. Of course I could change my standard template, but that requires free brain cells. And anyway, what’s really similar is the random musings of mothers. Her recent post is about PTA power trips, but my immediate connection is about bird poo.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Although Jesse and I are both unemployed, we managed to swing a new Mac Book and a shiny red Jeep. After using my new Mac Book to finish a laborious proposal to fund the position I wish I had and then jumping in the shiny red Jeep with my recently heroed husband, a bird pooped on my head. And here I go again with my fantasy/reality struggle.

In the fantasy, a bird poops on your head and it’s good luck. The reality is that you have to wash your recently “done” do. What’s lucky about that? The fantasy of the shiny red Jeep with the top down is pretty much busted at that point too. The promise of employment and a flashy computer fade into oblivion once a bird poops on your head.

Not long ago, Jesse and I witnessed a maintenance wife in her shiny black Cadillac Escalade. On every level, a well-coiffed, well-appointed trophy wife is the ultimate fantasy for both men and women. The reality is that she was driving with Playtex gloves on to protect her manicure from the inky residue of the papers she was flinging out the window of that shiny black Cadillac Escalade.

What a cruel joke. God gives us everything we ask for and then we ask for more. “Ask, and it shall be given you… For every one that asketh receiveth… Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” (Matthew 7:7ish if I must proof text). In His infinite wisdom, He embeds karmic contingencies for which we did not plan.

I get it. I’m a parent. I want to indulge my children. Even so, sometimes my kids insist they can go to school without a coat and I comply only for them to realize that the tank-top/sandal option isn’t all that comfortable when it’s cold outside. I allow them to find out for themselves that a moment of sunscreen in the eye is preferable to a blistering burn. Then comes their next ask; “Why didn’t you bring my jacket? Will you please go get it? Can you tell the teacher to let me stay inside at lunch?” But, come on. Humans are fallible. Everyone knows that. Why did Jesus command me to ask when he knew how tricky his dad is?

A reminder:
Jesse had just returned from a 14 month deployment in Iraq. That’s how he was my recently heroed husband. Also, don’t be scared by my God talk. I don’t think I do it all that much and I’m certainly not out to convert anyone. I’m Episcopalian, for the love of God!

And now an update:
Jesse and I are no longer sponging off savings and manage productive, tax-paying lives. In fact, we weren’t really unemployed then, but “under”employed. So, don’t start sending the checks. Though if you are so inclined, I still haven’t funded my position yet.

Happy Birthday to Me!

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For some reason I dressed all in shades of brown with black and white highlights today. I likely look like a monkey, but as my big bro points out, I don’t have to smell like one too. I could shower. But I didn’t, because it’s my birthday and I didn’t want to. Happy birthday to me, I live in a zoo, I look like a monkey, and I smell like one too. Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if I smelled like “one/TWO”? Eegads! Then again, I’d fit in at the park where I cruse the homeless cliques in my never ending search for a good source of TB.

I also didn’t want to drive the kids to school so the hubster did it. I stayed in my jammies until 9:30 in the a. to the m. Then I bought myself a full-fat iced mocha from a local joint who gave me a 15% discount on account of how awesome I am (and how I rocked my Catcard). Heck, for all I know the coffee wasn’t even Fair Trade and it came in a one-time use (but recyclable) plastic cup that didn’t even drip on my shirt. Afterward, I went to my son’s school on the premise that I would train to volunteer in the library. I was really only going to hang out with Anna who was casual cool in a Japanese coy T. We went to lunch.

Food was a big part of my big dia. I got some backyard tomaters from Molly and popsicles for FOUR kids plus myself from Kathy and hung out with Cassandra and Yvonne. Then Todd-o and Jesse took me and the ankle biters out for dinner. YUM-O and no dishes bitches! Please excuse my tone. I think my husband’s near beer has gone to my head. Luckily, he limited himself at one. That was his joke, btw. He’s hilarious.

Even the chickens helped me celebrate. They each gave me a perfectly shaped and colored egg. Thoughtfully, Flower treated me to an egg from the nest and not one randomly left in cacti or the coop floor. Jesse’s aunt sent me a pewter photo frame and of course my grandmother sent me a check for $25. Kari sent me a cardi and so did the dentist and a restaurant. My dad wished me happy birthday on his blog and my mother sent me a “card is in the mail” e-mail. I live a fat life!

Finally, because it’s my birthday, I’m not going to bother with “visual interest” on my blog. Now it’s time to leave you now (right bro?).

Child Assessment

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I was looking for a particular photo of my van since today gave me a reason to purge a brain blog on that subject. I couldn’t find it. Ah, well. That blog will have to stick in my brain for a while longer. Instead, I found this old journal entry marked “draft”. I think I’ll post it as is (minus the rant on DIBELS). But first, here is a recent photo of my mustard-only sandwich-eating son with a certificate for reading from the librarian at his school.

“Parrish does not eat paint.” The horror! All the other kids in the class eat paint, except for my son. Maybe I could put it on the dinner menu one night to prepare him for his next paint eating assessment.

Parrish’s teacher told me that he was her “shining star” and insisted that he had the intelligence to be an engineer. She described for me how he studied each toy in the classroom before he would play with it. He inspected for usefulness, function, and purpose the classroom toys. All the other kids slung the toys around without a care as to whether it was being used properly. Another blow. Why doesn’t my son eat paint? Why doesn’t my son play grab-and-go with the toys? What’s wrong with him?

At that conference, regardless of what the teacher actually said, I heard that my son isn’t creative and carefree. I heard that my son is too linear, methodical, and analytic. That night I asked him why he didn’t eat paint like the other kids. He slowly fixed his big blue eyes, rimmed with long brown lashes my way and blinked. What did I expect? He was only 18 months old.

Why is it that I considered the two days a week my son spent at daycare “school”? Why is it that as a parent I neglected to honor my son’s strengths and focused instead on imaginary areas for improvement? Since birth I did that with both my kids. Due dates, milestones, and so forth were met with my smug pleasure at being ahead of the curve. I’d like to say that I didn’t care what other kids were doing, but I’d be lying. I want my children to be normal. Well, slightly better than normal.

Here is my son then. Clearly, you can force your kid to wear funny glasses and he will still be serious if he’s a serious kid. The glasses and guitar lessons and routine screenings of The Muppet Show will round him out either by pumping up his cool factor or providing a depth of issues.