A year end retrospective.... and a funny about Err getting told...

I spent the day with WM yesterday. With the holidays at her shop, she only winds up having one day a week off (good thing she's in awesome shape)and I wind up with many weeks of no days off. One of the reasons I work at the shop is to get to spend some time with her. And time working retail at Christmas...is way better than no time at all (and friends.. this should tell you A LOT about how special this lady is).

****And can I just say... and this is totally unrelated.... that my mama is the ONLY person on the planet who can reduce my imightjustwhoopyourass self to a stuttering 12 year old. Having had my fill of entitled Chanel bag carrying* women who pushed past me and walked into me, I turned around and told some woman that I was NOT holding the door for her and I sure wasn't holding it for her so she could light up a smoke in my face. My mother dressed me down and handed me a serving of home training right there in front of everyone like I was 8. Something along the lines of 'just because she had no manners doesn't mean YOU can act like you don't....' Left me stammering about, "mama...ok mama...jeeze mama...."
heh.****


Anyway. We always have good talks. This time, one of our talks centered on one of her friends. This woman lost her parents at early ages, lost her husband in his early thirties and has remained single. But she's got a really good job for a high school grad from my neighborhood, and by staying on that grind, she's been able to pay off her house (in a much lower crime, high rent-type district). However, this is one of the most unhappy people I've ever met. Instead of being grateful that she's able to support herself, keep her home, etc she always bitterly reminds you that she's worked for every bit of it. No body helped her. She's bitter that my mom has a husband. (although she doesn't want to re-marry...which i get) She's bitter that she has a daughter (although she doesn't want children...which i also get). She's even more bitter about the way that we dote on my mom, the fancy presents we buy her, how we make time to go places with her. She's bitter about the lack of activities in her life, but she doesn't want to make friends because she doesn't like a lot of people. You get the idea, I'm sure.

I told my mom, "I think she's just made up her mind she's going to be unhappy."
And isn't that a sad state of affairs?

It got me thinking about my own life and my own choices and the people I choose to spend my time with.

Its no secret that I go to great length to weed out the bullshit from my life. Its not difficult for me to just walk away from people and spaces that aren't working for me. Often, these spaces might be positive for others, but not for me. I'm into how people talk. How they use language to position themselves (I understand I might be a little hypercritical about such things, but its what I do...and doesn't someone need to be a little overly sensitive if the vast majority takes their words for granted?). If I don't like what I hear, I bounce. I don't want to spend my time being continually put off by what I hear. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying everyone/every space I leave behind or frequent less is bad. But there is only so much free time in my life. I want to spend it in the best spaces possible.

This philosophy of my life makes me think about the people I do choose to spend my time around. WM decided she wanted a better life than her family was providing. She couldn't do this with those people in her life. So she bounced. In that family, you either play by their rules or you're out. She chose out instead of standing on the porch breaking up fights (which often involve guns) and hiding jewelry when family comes to visit. I can respect this.

Many of my close friends live by similar philosophies. Not that they regularly see family members on the news... :) but they've decided to live happy lives. They've decided to examine their lives and their decisions and try to make decisions that lead to a happy life. They choose to be happy. They choose to be work toward happiness. This doesn't mean that there aren't speed bumps. But they recognize the good things and try to weed out the stupid ones. They weigh the good and the bad. They ask for other perspectives on life. While they may make a totally different or even decisions they regret, they've made a decision instead of just letting life happen to them. Very often they may not even be sure what path or end they want to work towards, but they know that they're active agents in their lives and they think about who they are, who they want to be and how to be happy. And I love them for this.

You friends, know who you are. Here's to a great New Year and finding a great path.

*I have no problem with Chanel...its my favorite perfume. I'm just trying to give you a Paris Hilton wanna-be kind of visual.

weeds

great friggin show, man.

Wordsmith's Challenge:

I've decided I like Noah and his unnamed uptight friend.


\



Her thoughts ran together in hyper speed while the time outside her brain seemed to have stopped. Maybe trouble just finds me. No. I find trouble. I sure as hell found trouble this time. No. Noah finds trouble and I found Noah. Shit.

She should have run away in kindergarten when he shared his other Twinkie with her. She should have broken off their friendship that time in junior high when he convinced her it would be fun to ski off the roof of her house. Well, that had been fun. Until her upturned ski tips got hooked on the gutter and she’d face planted into the snow burms. 5 feet of snow with her legs and skis sticking out. Noah had tried to pull her out, but as a gangly 12 year old who was all teeth and elbows, he couldn’t do it. He’d had to call her dad at work. By the time dad figured out what they’d been up to, she had wished he’d stick her back in the snow. Her dad had grounded them both. They’d had to shovel all the neighbors’ driveways the rest of the winter.

Her dad was going to kill them both this time. Her dad had always served as Noah’s father figure. His mother figure, too. Noah’s parents were movers and shakers (though neither of them had ever been able to figure out what they were moving or shaking). They’d sent him to public school to connect with the regular folks. People magazine had done a story on it. It was how a plumber’s daughter and a film producer’s son wound up best friends. His parents were never home, his nanny’s were always busy having affairs with his dad while his mother was busy sleeping with her personal trainers. Noah spent most of his free time at her house.

They should be at her house eating Kraft macaroni and cheese and trying to beat her Ms. Packman score. They should not be having a party at his parents’ lake house.
She’d told Noah this. He’d told her not to worry. He always told her not to worry. She always worried.

This house was his parents attempt at simple living. They had folksy American artwork there that was worth more than her dad’s house. And now 40 kids from their high school were spilling beer on the furniture.

All day long, she’d been tucking Noah’s mother’s expensive art glass (hand blown by a Peruvian water buffalo, Noah had joked earlier) into closets and cupboards. Bored with the pool, the lake, the hot tubs, and the basement bowling alley, Noah’s drunken friends had started playing keep away with the collectibles. And now she was positioning herself under some big damn slow motion flying bottle. She didn’t even know who’d chucked it. She just held up her hands, kept her eye on it…and caught it. And then Noah had snuck up behind her and goosed her. She jumped and the vessel shattered.

Stupid Noah.

ho ho ho's and my mother in law, too

The holidays bring many things. Good tidings, yule logs (i don't know for sure what the feezey these are but I hear tell of them...) time with friends and family and for teachers like me... the holidays (most importantly) bring 2 weeks off.

The holidays also bring with them Christmas greetings from TB's family. Otherwise known as fuck you wife of TB notices. This holiday season of correspondence with TB's family has brought forth a metric ass ton (hi jc) of great fodder for rant-y blog posts. I have received a wedding invitation addressed to someone with my last name and another first name. Another wedding invitation addressed to Mr. and Mrs. The Boy (people. we have been married for ten years. forget that I am Dr. and not Mrs. I have NEVER EVER EVER FUCKING BEEN MRS. THE BOY. I have been for the last 33 years. Ms. Err. Ms. Err who will happily tell you that she is not nor will she ever be owned or i-fucking-dentified by a man.) I got a card addressed to The TheBoys.

I also got a Christmas letter from my in-laws that everyone they know gets. There are 8 pictures. 3 pictures are of their 9 (yeah count 'em 9) grandchildren (2 of these grandchildren are children of their daughter... 7 of them are children of their daughter's new husband). One pic is of my in-laws. One is of my father in law and his brothers. One is of my in-law's son in-law, his brother, his sister and son in law's niece. One is a snuggly picture of my sister in law and her husband. They are very happy with her husband and his 7 kids. The last picture is of TB and his mother on my couch.

Yeah. No pic of me. Left out of the Christmas letter. Again. Thankyouverymuch.

Holy fuckin' shit, people. I don't know whether to cry or shove a yule log up someone's ass.

2 hour delay!

There’s a lot of talk about how sweet teaching gigs are. Summers off, holidays, snow days, spring break, blah blah blah. Typically, when I hear teachers combat this kind of you have an easy job rhetoric, I hear about stacks of papers to grade every evening at home. Let me be very clear. Never, have I brought papers home to grade. I might stay late a half dozen times a year to input grades, but that’s about the extent of it for this kid. I’m there maybe 15 minutes early, and I bust my ass while I’m there.
At 3:10, I’m getting my shit to hit the door.

I maintain that a good teacher needs this time off to recharge her or his batteries. If you’re good at your job… you put your soul into it. And that really takes it out of ya, people.

I. Am. Tired.

No lie, part of it is due to working at WM’s shop. I’ve had, I think 3 days off since October. I’m still running, not as much as I’d like… but enough to shave 5 minutes off my previous time in a last minute 4 mile run with my brother last weekend (it was rad people…. I didn’t have a watch so I had no idea until I got to the finish line and TB’s jaw literally dropped when he saw me…he and K weren’t even looking for me yet). I’m walking the crazy dogs, training the new one, and attempting to keep a clean home and get some sleep.

I’m worn out. I NEED break. I need time to drink coffee with my dogs in the morning. I need to see my sister (or at least find time to talk more than every couple of weeks). I need to go out to lunch with loved ones. I need to play in the kitchen. I need to go for runs that I’m not just trying to sammich in between things that I have to coordinate time-wise with TB. No lie, my breaks are typically very busy. But I’m doing what I want, on my time.

I was telling TB this as I was standing in my shower cap and undergarments (I know, sex-ay) putting on my face this morning. I got ready to go a tad early because of the horrid weather, had KONG toys stuffed with treats to keep my boys busy for a while when I leave. They’d been out in the quarter inch of ice that covered everything (poor puppy wipe-outs….) and I was putting my jacket on over my scarf when TB yelled that my school was on a 2 hour delay according to the news.

I took off my dress clothes and put on sweats. I poured my coffee into an adventure mug instead of a travel mug. I sat on my made bed with WD and LD (who both apparently now sleep with all four legs in the air). Its only extra 2 hours. I have to leave at 8:20 instead of 6:15. Still fairly early. It will screw up lesson plans for everyone (myself included) all day long. I don’t even care. These 2 hours to catch up on email and puppy cuddles are just what the Dr. (Dr. Err that is) ordered.

Have a great day, asshole

Have you ever worked retail?
At Christmas?

I've been let out of the back room of WM's store. I was kept there for nearly 4 years, not allowed to work anywhere near the customers. It seems, I was a bit burned out. Maybe a lot burned out after 10 years of retail hell. There is something about women buying things for their house (and particularly buying a lot of it....however they define a lot) that makes them think they own you. Some don't own you, but rather take some kind of sick high school popularity mean girls pleasure in thinking they have some intimate personal friendship relationship with you. Neither of these sits particularly well with me. I see them as major flaws of character and person. However, I have a vested interest in the well being of my mom's business pursuits, and it not getting smacked (cuz my mother does that). So I treat most customers the same and am friendly and helpful and efficient.

My mom reached the conclusion that perhaps I needed a break when she began to build a new building. Her store was originally located in a 100 + year old farm house. She used the lot, which was over an acre to build a 4,000 square foot store. The old house still remains, but the garage built in the 70's had to come down.
Somewhere around the time of her remodel, I was in year 2 of my last round of school. My stress level was through the roof. It seemed my tolerance with women who found my mother's shop the cool store at the mall (hypothetically speaking), had run out.
My mom was sensing this very clearly (what with her Spidey-mom sense and all) and was proven right when this even took place.
Lady with no life: Oh my gosh!!! The garage outside is gone!!! What happened to it? (Less than slick way of asking what we were doing construction-wise... because of the remaining construction debris it was clear that it had been torn down).
Clerk with no home training (me): Beats me. We came in today and that sucker was just gone.
I got put on, um, sabbatical.
I'm not sure that I want to be back or if I would be allowed back if WM weren't so pressed for workers who were.... alive. Really people, I don't know why the hell people think that when you drive to your job it is called, 'going to work.' But here we are. Me, at 33 years of age, being reminded every weekend, to mind my manners.
But its hard people. Especially at the holidays. So if you've never worked retail in the holidays here are some tips:
1. All sales final means all sales final. Not all sales final for everyone but you. We aren't Walmart people.
2. Do. No. Tap your fucking fake finger nails at me while I ring in your sale. I am going as fast as I can, we are still faster than Walmart, and if the girl ringing you out is 6 feet tall, with red hair and ghetto hoops...she is totally thinking about kicking your ass. That's just rude.
3. No. I will not take your gum and put it in the trash. Nor your kids gum.
Leave your pop in the car, douche bags.
4. If you break it... say you broke it. Don't say, 'I think this was like this already' see the part about the tall red head.
5. If I quote you a price on something, don't loudly repeat it incredulously. That's tacky. Just say thank you and talk to your girlfriends about it in the car later.
6. If you're at a small store... do not (and I repeat do not) talk about how to make the stuff they have. You look like an ass. Be original. If you're so damn talented, then come up with your own ideas. And oh yeah. That redhead....
7. Heaven help you if the red head mentioned above catches you taking pictures or just as bad...shoplifting. You'll wish I called the cops.
8. Yes. Our Christmas trees are pretty. Yes. I could do it professionally. No I am not for hire. I know you would pay me. I have been to school for ten years. Unless you made me hot chocolate and toast on cold mornings and chicken soup when I was sick.... you can't afford to have me decorate your motherfucking tree.
9. If I say you can't take down my display. That means no. Not let me argue with you about it for ten minutes.

So far, I've been on my very best behavior. It would help if more people read my blog....

For Kris

I jacked this from Kris cuz I'm too tired to think of anything else.

#1 Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper. Gift tape. Cool do-dads and big thick ribbon.
#2 Real tree or Artificial? Fake, for sure. I'd prolly cry if I cut one down.
#3 When do you put up the tree? Shit. I put up maybe 40 every year at WM's shop. I'm about tapped out by the time it comes to put one up of my own.
#4 When do you take the tree down? I haven't put one up for at least 5 or 6 years. But when I do, they've got to be down by new year's eve.
#5 Do you like eggnog? Oh hell yeah. I don't drink it because dairy hates me and because I'm still what you call thick. Don't want to make that shift from a woman with a big ass to a big ass woman.
#6 Favorite gift received as a child? When I was in 6th grade I got the treadle sewing machine with the super secret spy doors that is in my living room under the MLK photo.
#7 Hardest person to buy for? My dad. Oh sweet Jesus. He is difficult.
#8 Easiest person to buy for? My mama. She's really sharp I love buying her clothes.
#9 Do you have a nativity scene? Nope.
#10 Mail or email Christmas cards? If I send them, I mail them.
#11 Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Mat got me a card that entitled me to a sweat shirt our first Christmas. I almost kicked his ass. Go. To. The. Store. Dillweed.
#12 Favorite Christmas Movie? I don't watch Christmas movies. You can't make me.
#13 When do you start shopping for Christmas? End of October. I usually only have one or two days off in November and December.
#14 Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Naw. But I've thrown some from my mother-in-law.
# Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Buckeyes and those green Christmas Trees cookies. My one grandmother (not Mrs. Price....make no mistake) disowned me, nobody made Christmas cookies for me any more. I'm going to figure out how to make my own damn little green trees this year. If you know what they're called that'd be awesome. I'm pretty sure if I google little green trees... I'll get some kind of stoner web site.
#15 Lights on the tree? Yeah. I like booshee ones. Like bubble lights for Mr. Price.
#16 Favorite Christmas song? Christmas music makes me want to stab myself.
#17 Travel at Christmas or stay home? I don't care.
#18 Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? Isn't it like Drunken, Bloated, Broke and them? Erm. No I can't.
#19 Angel on the tree top or a star? We never had anything on top of our tree growing up.
#20 Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Don't care. I usually do Christmas with my mom and dad that morning. My dad worked out of town growing up and sometimes we had to celebrate a week late or early. Shit like that don't phase me....
#21 Most annoying thing about this time of the year? I really fucking hate Christmas.
#22 Favorite ornament theme or color? eh.
#23 Favorite for Christmas dinner? we do breakfast at my mom's crib. and we get a pecan roll from Andersons. My dad makes good coffee. Its rad.
#24 What do you want for Christmas this year? students who know how act....its that time of year. i'm starting to hate them just a little.
heh

Quick Update

Um, people. I have my work cut out for me with the new pup.
He is a year and a half, and still very much a puppy.
BD was 12 mos when I got him. Never acted like a puppy. He is way too serious about his job (whatever that is) to be silly. His issues came out later. With strangers, not in the house.
LD.... this guy, all silly all the time. And he has NO idea how to be in a house. Or with a family.
You put the leash on, and he carries it around house walking himself. I set off my car alarm, and he peed. He has learned, however, not to take BD's food (and BD won't eat until he makes sure LD has his....). He has learned to come in when I call him, and how to get a cuddle. Something else he didnt' know. His favorite new thing.
Anytime he doesn't know what's going on...he stops and won't move. That's a bit of a pain when he and BD are hooked together sled dog style and LD gets stuck UNDER BD when its pitch dark, before 6 am, when I have to leave shortly for work.

But he's learning. And you can tell he's amazed by life here.

Strangers want to love LD and pet him and feed him (and maybe call him George...)at the pet store. Funny because while they tell me how good BD is they give us A LOT of room to get by. No one wants to pet him or feed him. Sad because BD is really sweet. Do those few extra inches and 20 extra pounds of muscle really make BD that much more intimidating? Weird. I've never been afraid of a dog unless it was chewing on my leg.

LD is really out of shape from sitting in the shelter for 6 months only getting out of his cage every few days for a little bit. He was a skinny fat guy. After 2 weeks with us, he's just plain skinny. The hour to hour and a half of walking and playing with BD and going to doggie daycare have shed several pounds off his tiny frame. His poor hip bones not only show, but are pointy and hard. We play hard at this house. Hopefully, in a few months he'll be buff like BD. Well, BD is pretty massive. He may not be that buff. But maybe he won't be so skinny.

In other news, my job finally went full time and a 'major Midwestern university' called me to adjunct and I'm working weekends at my mom's store. I haven't had a day off in months, my dogs are wearing me out, and its really pretty awesome.

How you all doing?

Wordsmith's Challenge

Bad, bad, bad, stupid bad idea this had been. Like the Edsel, shag carpet, brussle sprouts, and that time she’d tried to surf. Another of Noah’s brilliant ideas. Noah was stupid. She was more stupid for finding herself yet again in some kind of bad sitcom jam with him. This time they were lost in the woods. That was no sitcom. More like X-files or Supernatural. Although she highly doubted that some Impala-driving Dean Winchester with a smart ass line, a bad boy squint, and lips pretty enough to make her teeth sweat was going to come out of the woods and save her.
No. She was here with stupid, stupid Noah.
In a place where a purty mouth was a whole different adventure.
She glared at the back of his stupid camo hat.
His fishin’ hat.
For luck.
Stupid dill hole didn’t even fish.
She wanted to take hers off and beat him with it. Put it somewhere uncomfortable.
Hers was pink.
A fishin’ hat for luck. Never mind that SHE DIDN’T FUCKING FISH EITHER.
He’d gotten them both one for this adventure.
He’d always been like that. One for him and one for her. Beers, silly t-shirts, or a spot of trouble. One for him and one for her. It all started in kindergarten when he’d gone to the supply room to get a bottle of finger paint to decorate the teacher’s chair. He’d brought her a bottle, too. Blue for him and orange for her. Mrs. Vienna had sat in the chair before noticing their handy work. Her ginormous butt stamped with kindergarten graffiti. They'd spent a week’s worth of recess with their heads down.
She grinned despite herself. She’d almost forgotten that was mad at Noah. She scowled at his hat as they tromped through the woods to whoknowswhere.
He’d found some damn story about an abandoned railroad bridge that they had to go find. He’d wanted to tell her something. She was curious, but his grin was as pretty as Dean Winchester’s and she’d agreed. She shoved THAT idea out of her mind. They’d been best friends for twenty years. He didn’t have a pretty mouth.
She always went along with him and this time was no different.

He'd picked her up early, stopping for directions at a ramshackle gas station. It featured dusty counters, a display case full of bongs, a most excellent assortment of munchies, and a cashier who was clearly fat Elvis in hiding. They’d left with moon pies, grape soda and directions to the bridge.
“Pull over, hike six, seven miles,” he’d said.
They’d gotten directions from a fat stoned Elvis. No wonder they were lost.

Suddenly, stupid Noah stopped. She ran into him and started to grump at him but stopped.
“Oh shit,” she breathed and took his hand.
In front of them was an abandoned warehouse. Odd that it was in the woods. Odder still that she could see right through it.

Fat stoned Elvis didn’t mention this.

remember that time....

...that Err had to take her lip liner to school with her because she thought she had parent teacher conferences and didn't want to look like hell after a 14 hour day(and really she was a dumb ass and they were the next day anyway so it didn't matter)? And remember how she had on a button down shirt and a skirt? With no pockets? And remember how she had to take a bunch of crap with her and get the 2 crazy dogs in the car? And remember how her purse was in the car? And how she stuck the lip pencil in between her business in her bra thinking she'd put it in her purse when she got out to her car? And remember how she forgot about it and put on her scarf and jacket? And how she sat through a parent teacher meeting and her first period of the day with lip liner in her cleavage?

Yeah. I don't remember that either.

Good decisions

No new negro league players at my house. I was pulling for Jackie Robinson. Then I'd get to live with Hank Aaron and Jackie Robinson. TB, however, felt that the little shy dog we met at Pet Smart (who was there with Big Dog's former 3 time foster family) was more like Walter Payton. I can live with that. He's another German Shepherd Husky mix. Way smaller than the one I live with. He was adopted at 6 months, spent 6 months with family who left him crated for 10 hours and were surprised when he dug and tried to run away.
Smart dog
Being a larger (though not BD large) and black and full of energy, he spent the next 6 months at the dog shelter.
We brought him home Sunday.
He doesn't know a lot of things that a dog who's had a home would know. What to do when someone is trying to put a leash on you, how to come and get a pet (though he learned that along with his name by Sunday night), or that turning the lights off means simmer the frick down and go to sleep. He also isn't in very good shape yet. Not a lot of muscles and kind of skinny-fat. Heh. He lives with me. That'll change soon.
And the good news is that he's pretty submissive, so he walks well on the leash despite me being the first person to walk him. He's been walked from here to there, but never taken on a walk. I am eternally grateful for this because as alpha as BD is, the two of them could could very well drag me from one end of the town to the other like their giraffe they've been playing tug with.

Note: As we picked up our new pup at the shelter and 2 boys and their dad picked up their new one at the same time, a lady returned her dog and a stray was dropped off by whomever found him. The holes this other family and mine made were filled before we emptied them. I'm just saying.

squee.....

People.
There may be a WD2.
Keep your fingers crossed for another negro league player at the house of err.

Blogblast for Peace (special thanks to Mojo the person)

Like most everything about me, folks.... its rough but sincere.

How many of you hear me say PEACE at the end of a phone call or message when you see this at the top of my blog? Those of you that don’t hear me leave messages, I’m sorry I don’t know how to write it. Likely it sounds a hair more like Pace than Peeeece as I’m not so much with the annunciation most of the time. There is a drop in the inflection with an emphasis on the vowel sound. pEAce! Think rap video stuff from the early 90’s. Much of my life in the early 90’s was like a rap video…

And it was in the early 90’s that I picked the expression up. Peace. Peace Out. It was a standard way for a good homegirl/boy to end a convo or a letter. And because I’m getting older and there are always some things that older people never let go of I still say it. And because even the mighty academy can’t beat the hood rat out of me, I still pretty much sound the same when I say it. But I must admit, it has a different meaning to me at 33 than it did at 15.

Somewhere around my doctoral program, I started to think about what the word means. Considering the book I just published with my advisor is about discourse analysis, that’s no surprise, really. Thinking about words is what I do. That time in my life was pivotal. The day I got accepted into the program was the day our country went to war.

Do I think war is wrong and unjust? Sure. I’m a pretty good liberal. Far left liberal even. I don’t believe in the death penalty. I do believe in gay marriage. All the things that freak out my in laws. For me, however, peace isn’t about an end to the war. At least not this war.

I’m seldom passive. Seldom quiet. Seldom what you would think of as peaceful. You can poke your head into my classroom on any given day and hear, “Son. Unless you want that pencil to wind up somewhere very uncomfortable….stop tapping it while I am talking.” No. I don’t think I’m exactly what you’d call a peacenik… at least in the traditional sense. But my favorite shirt has a recycle symbol, an earth, and a peace sign. Everyone knows that that is my thing. Peace. pEAce.

My peace sign t shirts with my big butt, flashy Nikes, less than natural makeup and my trademark ghetto hoop earrings. I look like I borrowed someone else’s clothes.
I keep telling people I’m complex.

My whole thing about peace (pEAce) isn’t about wars in the traditional sense, but it does go back to that pivotal time when I started back to school and we went to war. I felt like I went to war. I had blindly bumped my way through the entire process of applying to the doc program. Making one stupid ill informed but very polite call after another. It took me damn near six months to get my stuff in. I knew so little about anything that I didn’t know graduate assitanceships existed. I didn’t know what ABD was. What a dissertation was. What an advisor was. I knew nothing. And certainly, I didn’t know that high heeled knee boots, a shorter (not mini, but above the knee) length skirts (and those ghetto hoops) were not standard doc student attire. Especially for the first interview. I figured it out when the student interviewed before me walked out in wrinkled khakis and a sweater. No make up. Hair plain. Certainly not red hair with blonde and purple highlighting. Gah. When I sat down and said to the room full of scholars who I’d stalked for years and said, “hi. How you folks all doin’?” I saw the exchanged amused glances and knew that I needed to sound a bit more…. Well, a little less like me.


I knew I had walked into a world that I had only suspected existed. And folks, it was so much worse that I could have imagined. I was so much different that I could have imagined. Except for my #3 brother, (who I met in this program and who’s words, “you know who you are” saved me more times that I can count)…no one was like me. Even the other students of color (and there were precious few) came from doctors and lawyers and government officials. On top of the pressure we faced with work and making careers, I had no idea who I was supposed to be in the academy.

For a time...there was no peace.

There was no peace in our country. In the world. I decided to work for peace. However I could get it.

Peace took on a new idea for me. Peace of mind. Peace inside. I took on a new identity inside the academy. I was Err, in the academy. This meant I was me, only my location changed. My hoodrat stubbornness and irreverent attitude stood firmly in the forefront of my identity. I brought back my swagger. I was a hard worker. My work was top notch. Professors called my advisor to report the high quality of my most recent papers. My attitude was my own. Phrases like, “how you gonna….” were heard for what was very likely the first time in seminars (I got a reputation for saying “the funniest things…” when I wasn't being funny at all). I used Friere and Anzaldua to argue against the hegemony of the white middle class standard in educative systems. I used words like hegemony. But on more than one occasion, I got called to the side and was told, “you should smile more.” I learned that a nod and “how you doin’?” did not successfully replace a cheesy grin and head tilt. I smiled at my ‘helpers’ and totally disregarded their info. I knew who I was and that was a step toward peace.

I fought tooth and nail to do good work in a community I cared about. Another step. At the cost of the big time change the world career in the academy for which I was being groomed, I chose to return to the classroom with the hope of keeping only one foot in the academy. This did not cause peace between myself and my advisor. But it was a huge step toward peace on a bigger scale. Because folks, there are wars out there that many folks concerned with World Peace don’t know about. Or choose to ignore.

Every night in my city someone gets capped. Its usually a young black male. Like my students. I work everyday for peace (and pEAce) in that world. Teaching kids to stay safe. Telling them to watch their back. Letting them know that they decide who they want to be. Reminding them every day to do the right thing. Threatening them with a month’s worth of something dirty and gross if I catch them fighting. Breaking up fights in a not too peaceful way and then not turning them in.
A step toward peace.
To end the urban genocide of gang warfare.

Every year, I give my lecture. About how we don’t use gay as a prejorative in my class. About how, “if you had 2 mamas wouldn’t you love them?’ Would you want someone to bust on them in my class? Wouldn’t that hurt you? Would you like it if everything that was lame, was called your name??? Those shoes is so Malik. That’s not fair! That’s just so Shaquan. Would you like that??” My voice trying not to break, I tell them about my student who killed himself because when he came out to his family they ridiculed him. I tell them THAT IS WHY YOU WILL NOT SAY THOSE WORDS IN MY CLASS.
For peace.

Maybe someday we’ll get peace throughout the world. For now, I’m just trying to be peace myself and get some peace on the block.

Wordsmith's Challenge

She sat in her E class working up the nerve to get out.

Shit.

There seemed to be a cult of the mom jeans here. And that cult broke off from the cult of the denim jumpers and socks. What the hell had she been thinking when she came here?

Her key was still hanging in the ignition. She should just start the damn car back up and drive back home. She already missed neon signs, and pawn shops, and thugs who posted up on the corner, nodding their hellos. If her mother were still alive, she would have talked her child out of this shit. If her mother were still alive, she wouldn’t be here in the first fucking place.

She looked at herself in the rear view mirror. No one saw her. The windows were blacked like she was the president herself. Course, the president didn’t roll on Dubs. Or wear Gucci stunner shades studded with rhinestones. They might as well have been neon lights. Flashing neon that said, “I DON”T BELONG HERE.” Soon, people would start blessing her little heart for looking so out of place.

It wasn’t so much that her gear was top shelf. The town, though small, was affluent. It was a college town. She wasn’t the only one there with an 80, 000 dollar car. Hell, she could pick out five of them from where she sat. Small private college town. She’d moved here to work with other top surgeons doing research. They didn’t work for minimum wage.
I don’t work for minimum wage anymore.

It wasn’t that she was paid that made her stand out. It was that she was flashy. Way too flashy. Clearly, she hadn’t come from money. And she didn’t care who knew it, she made no effort to blend. Back home, her ride was not the most expensive on the block, either. Maybe the only one with a legal title… Here, they all were legal, boring. No way did any have Budweiser in the trunk. Maybe microbrews. Fuck that. She liked Bud. The carryout by the free clinic she’d opened back home didn’t carry micro brews.

She was here to meet the head of her research team. He’d invited the young single doctor to join him and his wife at the “delightful farmers market” where she could “meet most of the town!” She’d smiled at the white haired old scientist, knowing that she had to make nice and agreed to meet them at 9. She’d said she was, “Looking forward to it.”

Really, she’d been looking forward to listening to the O-Jays and get stinking drunk. She didn’t care about meeting anyone. She didn’t care about making scientific history with the research team. She cared about whipping the ass of heart disease which had taken her mother at the age of 42. To do that, she had to make nice.

She took a deep breath and opened the door, promising a fast return to her 12 little Buds.

4 words

Its about damn time.

Trash Day, yo.

Man. Wo-man. (think so I married an axe murderer)
Time gets away from me this time of year.

WM had her open house for the holidays at her store. Read: I pick out, light up, and decorate roughly 7,000 trees. Well, maybe not. But in the tens of dozens anyway. Roughly a metric ass ton of trees. I am really good at it. I also have only had a tree like once at my house. I get my fill of that shit in late october. After the trees she closes down for a week. Which means, this kid works 14 ish hour days every day for like 3 weeks. This year, I'm working many weekends for her because apparently, people don't want to work. I mean sure, they want to go somewhere and get a check. But they don't want to work. Shit, I don't get that. If nothing else, the day takes too damn long if you stand there with your thumb up your ass.
I'm just saying.

I survived the outlaw visit. Barely. Lots of "i thought you said...."s from my MIL. And pictures of her boy with her, her boy with his dad but none of her boy and his wife. Um, I may not exactly be a looker.... but I ain't gonna break a camera lens either. Then there was that passive aggressive, 'I'm not going to walk over to you and hug you." And folks, I was not the bigger person. I didn't go get a hug. Not because I'm being passive (cuz let's face it folks...I'm aggressive sometimes *cof*often...but never passive). Only because I was too damn tired to bother. Two tears in a bucket.

I am really, really fucking tired. And apparently, that sleeping issue I have is starting to cause other health problems. So a new doc who's trying to find out what has happened put me on one of those 'non addictive' sleep aids. And yeah. I'm still freaked out about it. Puh-leeze don't give me the rap about biological shit and how it won't hook me. If you'd come up like I did, seen air conditioners ripped out of walls and guns pulled on family members and more other fun stuff, you'd worry about it too. You'd understand being scared to death that you might be a junkie. You'd be scared to death that you would be the one to go back to the way things are there. But in what is either good or bad news, the sleep aid, four days in....doesn't do a damn thing.

My dog is rad. After we went to vote, we went to hike. The squirrels of the world have apparently gotten together, held a caucus and figured out how they can drive WD apeshit. Their plan of run past him really fast..... totally works. Squirrels don't use leashes and that drives WD crazy. Equally as maddening... squirrels don't stay on the path. My dog, it seems, is as crazy as I am. Hmm.. my doc did say I seem anxious.
*****no shit, sherlock, you've had me waiting for an hour.....I.NEED.TO.GO.*****

Yeah. Doc met me for ten minutes and said I seem anxious. Up tight. Wonder if he wanted to call me a dork or start talking about my mother. Fucking pissed me off and no doubt, that makes me everything he said. But still.

And that, dear readers.... updates you on my world.

But because my bloggofriend MOJO (see my list) is advocating for the peace blog and i dig peace...there will be a peace blog on the 6th. And there would be a cool logo too if I were cooler.
So use your imagination about the direction I might take and for those of you that know me IRL, think about how I always end messages on the phone and email with Peace. And how I totally don't sound like a hippy....

heh.

Ahem

My in-laws will be here this weekend.
Pray for me, people.
Or maybe....
come bail me out.

About Home Training....

I talk a lot about home training. I don't mean training for WD. Though he's had his share and like the kids in my class, I insist my pup know to act like he's been somewhere before.

Every time one of my classes goes somewhere as a group (fire drill, assembly, library trip) I threaten my children within an inch of their lives. This really means that I come up with ugly disciplinary act outside the detention box. No lie, earlier this week, I marched a kid to the janitor and had the kid help with the toilet scrubbing while his classmates were in the library. Our dress code states that for safety purposes (gun holding, not tripping over yourself), shirts must at all times be tucked into the uniforms. When a child leaves my room, I always instruct them to 'tuck that shirt in to your socks, son.... don't you leave here lookin' like you don't belong to nobody...' The implication, of course being that they belong to me if no one else.

Being that they are junior high aged babies, they have a propensity to suck their teeth (you need some dental floss honey, you got somethin' nasty in there??)blow out copious amounts of annoyed at me air from their mouths (you got a leak, baby...'bout to wind up flat like Stanley if you don't seal that up), they have cornered the market on rolling their eyes (don't you roll those little eyes at me, child...I'm not the one). When the kids are aggravated and toss something to someone I make them do it again until they can be nice about it. When they say something with an attitude, I make them say it again until they can say it right. If they stomp their little silly feet, they must walk across my room again, until they can walk like they've got some sense. Its my way of imparting the same home training I got on them. It often takes away time from curriculum, but I believe children need home training. I think it is the most important part of what I do.

On more than one occasion, I've had parents thank me for helping to raise their child when they are not there to do it. I've also had a few parents in my class annoyed with me and my strict rules, but that's another story.

This notion of home training is a part of who I am. It really does define me when you get right down to it. When I'm in a store, particularly in the area of town where I work, and I see some kids showing out, I often shake my head at the cashier and say, "no home training..." Nine times out of ten, a conversation ensues about how our mothers 'would have busted us in the ass by now.' I think, maybe, its a cultural thing.

The Boy was not raised with the same kind of home training. He had training, I guess, but it was vastly different. We had just started dating when I realized it. His sister walked in his parents house, and took off her shoes while we (her mom, dad, brother, friend and me) were all sitting there in the same room. She didn't so much as speak to anyone. I was floored, waiting for his mom to go drag her by the ear out to the living room make her apologize and then make her go outside and come in again like she had some sense.

Um. I don't know anything about having to do that myself....

Instead, his mom turned to me and told me not to take it personally, that her daughter was just like that.

Rude?

The longer I was in this relationship and the more it put me into other situations with people so unlike myself, I began to realize that some folks idea of home training or politeness was vastly different than my own. I became familiar with what I think of as the White Middle Class Interview. That is, when someone (who I guess can't just make small talk about random stuff OR who isn't comfortable just being together quietly) begins to drill you with questions about yourself. Where are you from, what do you do, are you married, what do your parents do.....

GAH!!!!

This is unbelievably rude in my book. The way I grew up, you just don't do this. Its prying, nosy, and shows that no one raised you right.

Except that I found out, that this is supposed to make some folks feel comfortable...not like they're on trial or at a job interview. The idea is that people like to talk about themselves and you're giving them an opportunity to do so. You're showing them that you're interested. You're supposed to return the favor, asking them the same series of questions. Except a) i was raised not to act like my name is Nosetta b)I don't much care unless I know you well enough that you want to share these details without my asking c) I was also raised that its rude to monopolize a conversation by talking about yourself and d)doesn't this make conversation less of a conversation and more of a verbal tennis match?

I've also noticed the tendency, for people to need to show you that they know what you're talking about (where is the shame in just saying, 'damn, i don't know nuthin 'bout that....'?). Sometimes, I think of it like a terrier with a tennis ball, bouncing up and down... "I know something! I know something!"


You can imagine, I'm sure, my frustration with these events and these people who I'm sure mean well and are perfectly nice folks, but have no home training. No doubt they have a very staunch idea about what it is to be polite...but that's way different than home training.


In my regular life, outside of brief work-type encounters, I don't run around with people with no home training. Life is short, people. I like people who get my flow, people with whom interactions are easy and comfortable, not people who lean on my last nerve and say things that make me think, "excuse me??? the fuck did you just say to me???"

This is problematic, because TB, does spend time with these folks. And sometimes, he expects me to come with him and sometimes, when he does, he forgets who he's married. Or maybe he expects me to forget who I am, just for a happy hour. The last time we went to happy hour with his work place friends, I had just defended my dissertation. TB had taken a personal day to go with me to my defense. Hanging out on campus, waiting for me to call asking either for a celebration or some solace. Because he took a personal day, some folks he worked with knew where he'd gone. But just because it had just happened didn't mean I want to make some grand announcement to people who were basically strangers. If you know me, you know that's about the last thing I'd want to do.

I'd no more sat down at the table where they all were, when some lady I never remember meeting said, "So I understand you just defended your dissertation?"
"Um. Yeah. I wasn't exactly planning on making an announcement, but yeah I sure did."

TB just gave me this freaked out look. Clearly, I should have just smiled a toothy smile and said "yes." Maybe while tilting my head to the side.

But. Not only did this woman put my business out there for everyone to hear, but she also made an announcement for me. I did have 2 fairly good friends there, who I'd been waiting to share my news with... in private. Thanks, lady, for taking that away from me. You want to tell me what Santa is bringing me this year, too?

At that time, a guy who I'm not close to (not even friends...he's just a co worker of TB) but who I know from my teacher prep program, spoke up, "So. You're a PhD now, huh?"

I nodded my head watching the other 6 people just look at me like I had 3 eyes, "yep, I guess I am."

He poured another drink and said, "huh."

Not, "that's awesome" or "good for you" or "kiss my ass." Notice, no one said anything positive. They just got their information and moved on. Indeed, it would have been worse if I'd gotten the interview. But my answer to the first women was intended to gently remind her that I didn't necessarily want to go into the ins and outs of a dissertation defense right there over nachos and beer. And the reason I didn't folks, is because to tout a big degree like that, would be bragging. Even if they asked me about it. And I have home training, people.


I don't think these people were being inherently rude. In fact, in some circles I understand this was an attempt to include me and be polite on their terms. However, it was bullshit under my framework. And by not saying, "excuse me???" I was showing my high level of home training. It was my right, to put a gentle stop to the conversation. If TB's co workers were uncomfortable, then they damn well should be.


TB is putting together another co-worker happy hour this week. He wants me to go. God love him, he always wants me to go. But he always ends up giving me this freaked out 'you're making these people uncomfortable' look. So I reminded him who it is that he married. And offered to stay home. Frankly, I've worked damn hard to get where I am and still stay true to myself. Everything I've done has been on my terms (though its made my road exponentially harder). I'm not going to pretend to be Suzie White Middle Class just to eat a half a quesedilla with TB's friends from work. I am what I am. Take me or leave me. No hard feelings either way. Shit, and I'm not that ghetto, people. Its not like I am one of the bitches from Flavor of Love or something.


He told me, "I just want you to be nice." I reminded him, that I am nice. In my own way. Never, when I hear his co workers talk about how his students 'can't talk right' or how they're 'tired of seeing boy's under ware' (old white women hate when boys have some sag in their swag), or crack on a decidedly urban hair cut, do I give them a full body 'WTF is wrong with you? you look like you just rolled the fuck out of bed and you're going to talk about someone else???' I let it go until they address me. Then I gently say something like, "um, what do you mean by that?" And no lie, there's an edge to it that says, "I can't believe you just said that out loud in front of other people." But I don't just rail on them.


I think TB would rather (for his own comfortableness) that I just smile and nod and let it go...understanding that they don't know any better. But I have home training and while that doesn't permit me to just go off on someone (no matter how they've offended me) it also doesn't allow that I don't stand up for my people. I have home training.

*Disclaimer*
I am just putting this out there, folks. It isn't an attempt to understand how the other person might be trying to make me feel welcomed, etc. I've spent about the last four year studying social interactions from a discourse analysis perspective between white middle class female teachers and working/survival class students of color. So I feel comfortable with my assessment of my own life experience.
:) I am not trying to bust on other people who may subscribe to this framework, just analyzing the world with a more marginalized one in order to share a different perspective.

Cuz maybe you have ten minutes before you have to get into the shower, too....

I got a book yesterday from the library.
But not the university library.
The Public Library.
I got a book to read for fun.
People, except for Harry Potter...I have not had one of these for over 5 years. Hot damn.

My dog is feeling better. He wiggled his butt at me and ran out in the yard today without limping. Yay!

Greek yogurt. Holy shit. Where have you been all my life? Oh yeah. In the bin marked mother-freaking 2 dollas a thing... Ehh, that's part of my philosophy. We almost never eat out and we budget well. If I want to spend ten bucks on greek yogurt and its good for me, I'll do it. I'm crazy blessed that way to feel like I can get what I want at the grocery store as long as its healthy. Hasn't always been that way folks...And I'm totally aware of how damn fortunate I am.

Had a parent meeting yesterday. Have talked with this lady on the phone a couple of times. Introduced myself, "hi i am (first name here) Err, how you doin' today?" Lady looked at me like I had 3 eyes or something. Don't know what the hell that was about.

They want me to write up WD's story because he's done so well with his training. Seems other folks have had the problems he has, not gotten help soon enough and been put down (gah!). After seeing the pretty little girl GSD who was in there yesterday getting help... I am more than happy to do it!

I love my neighborhood

Not the one I live in. It totally sucks my Err.
The one I work in. THAT is my neighborhood.
It used to be busy and business-y. Not so much now. Higher crime and poverty pushing in have moved business to the next town over in the way that urban sprawl does. Which really, if you think about it...is less of an urban sprawl and more of a shift. No lie, the poverty and high crime that has pushed in is that from the neighborhood where my family was from. I suppose, I am just another generation who's come to stay.

I spend most of my life in this area, I shop there as much as possible, which isn't often because there aren't many businesses left. Of the businesses that remain, there is a PetSmart and an Anderson's General Store.

Anderson's is just a cool place. Its supposed to be an old fashioned general store. This means you can buy dog food, soap, fancy pants beer and tulip bulbs. They have a nice butcher that is reasonable and helpful, a bakery that is clearly straight from the depths of hell because it is so damn sinful, a garden center and areas where you can remodel your bathroom. There are all kinds of people there. Uppity white women buying herbs and imported idon'tknowwhat, rough necks buying beer and Dickies, old folks browsing over locally grown apples and $.99 sugar baby watermelons on special, rats like me buying neckbones or hamhocks for greens and other stuff. No one looks out of place there.

My purchase yesterday was a half-peck of Ohio grown yellow delicious apples (and really, I have no idea what a half-peck is, but will tell you that it tickles a city girl to buy apples like this in the city), a LED light up collar thingy for Wonder Dog (because it is never light on our morning walks anymore), Burts Bees soap for my shower, a magazine that is hard to find for my mom (they always have it), and 2 cans (yay, metal cans!!!) of coffee with chicory. You can't help but leave happy.

I drove around the empty shopping district (the grocery, Best Buy and others are gone, a cheap seats movie and Waffle House remain). There's a Target (that no doubt has limited days as they are building one in that neighboring town I was telling you about earlier), a Hobby Lobby, an Office Max, and a Pet Smart. There were twice the amount of stores here at one time, but they're all gone and the parking lots are empty and eerie.

Wonder Dog managed to get himself a puncture wound in his front paw. My boy who's got issues to begin with, hurt his paw and was limping. And finally trusted me to help him. He looked to me to fix it. And that, folks, broke my heart, because I didn't know how and couldn't get in to see the vet until two days later. Because I am a totally sap about things WD related, I decided it was time to replace his old, now flat, too small for a tall guy like WD bed with the grand master pimp bed that I saw at Pet Smart when I adopted him (but couldn't afford because, people, new dogs...particularly new big dogs with issues.... are expensive).

I love Pet Smart anyway. Even when I don't get to take my dog (I know, I'm a dork) I love being around the other dogs. I'm reminded of adopting my dog from a Mingle with the Mutts sponsored by Pet Smart. But this store is somewhat different than others. Its almost totally devoid of designer dogs. Mixed breeds like mine don't get sideways looks. Big tuff dogs like mine, don't get looks. There are some little dogs with older folks, but mostly, there are powerful breeds. Rotties, dobes, and pitbulls. My guy, with his muscles, tuff guy swagger, and gentleman's collar, wouldn't have raised any eyes.

I saw the most beautiful red pitt as I was carrying out a dog bed that was so big it made me feel silly. His man let him out and then had him wait until he got his wallet and locked the passenger side door. Leash dragging, the pitt did not run away and go eat someone's face. Instead he watched his man, wiggling and waiting. And instead of everyone acting like loose pitt would eat their face (he picked up the leash, by the way, when he began walking into the store) an older lady stopped him to pet the pretty red dog and talk to his owner.

Even after a long staff meeting in what is currently a complicated job situation, I left for home in a really good mood (which got exponentially better when WD went totally ape shit over his new bed). Its good to be somewhere that the world makes sense to you. Where people nod up instead of down. Where they say, "how you doin'" and "alright" and look you in the eye when you pass by. Where people catch the door because they have home training. Where the people checking you out get your jokes and don't look at you like you're weird. I suppose its how you feel when you're home.

This Week In Mama Err's Class....

Enter Dr. Err. She looks up just in time see boy take 3 running steps and CLEAR a set of four of those desk chair hooked together things.

Dr. Err: Hakeem!!!!!! Out here now!

A hush falls over Dr. Err's room. Which, folks, hasn't happened without threat of death, detention or a text book up the nose...sideways.... since the beginning of the year.

Hakeem: Yes, mama.

As they step outside she slams the door dramatically.

Dr. Err: Dude.
Hakeem: I'm sorry Mama.
Dr. Err: Boy, you know there's a part of me that thought that was really impressive right?

Hakeem breaks into a huge smile, knowing he's not about to die, just maybe get told.

Dr. Err: But you know the teacher part of me knows that if you'd hit that desk wrong, or missed it or something, you coulda busted your head and killed yourself, right?

Hakeem (more serious): Yes, Mama.
Dr. Err: And you know, that because of this most teacher's would have put you out for that, right?
Hakeem: Yes, mama.
Dr. Err: I ain't gonna put you out over that, cause we got important stuff to do and I want you in the class to hold down your table family. But I will personally break your legs if I see you do that again. Kapeesh?
Hakeem: Kapeesh.
Dr. Err: Now that was all kinds of cool. You got hops, Hakeem. I want to see you put them on an athletic floor, you hear me?
Hakeem: Yes, Mama.
Dr. Err: But if you tell any of those knuckle heads I said that, I'll deny it in a court of law.
Hakeem: (laughing) Ok, Mama.
****************************************************
Same class, different day. We're jotting down everything we know about Pharaohs.

Dr. Err: I just want ya'll to take, maybe like 2 minutes to write down every thing you've learned about Pharaoh's. You don't have to write in complete sentences. I am more concerned that you write down a lot of different things, than that you take the time to write in sentences. This ain't Language Arts, ya'll. Just gimme a laundry list of things you know about Pharaohs.
Tanisha: Laundry List?
Dr. Err: Um, yeah. You know, sometimes when people want a list of things, or whatever, they call it a laundry list.
Jamaal: Why?
Dr. Err: I dunno, actually.
King David: Mama, nobody say that.
Dr. Err: Sure they do. I didn't just make it up.
King David: I ain't never heard no one say that.
Dr. Err: I dunno, King David. White people say it. My husband say it. That's where I got it from, I think.
DeYante: That's why you don't know what it mean.
Dr. Err: Probably. Anyway. Can we PLEASE get back to my class and making lists of things we know about Pharaoh's?
***************************************************************
Enter a 9th grader from high school.

Samisha: Hiiiiiii, Dr. Err..... Look at that, Dr. Err.

gives Dr. Err a hug.

Dr. Err: Hi baby. How's the high school?
Samisha: Social Studies is easy... I'll tell you that.
Dr. Err: Didn't I tell you? Everything after my class...is easy.
Samisha: Yeah, but I didn't think you meant it!!!!
******************************************************************
*note* all names have been changed to protect the identity of the knuckle heads in my class who say this ridiculous stuff....

Fear

JC and I were talking last week sometime about dry spells in your writing. I think most people go through dry spells with most things they do. Times when you're just not feeling it. That may be cooking, gardening, running, dealing with your house or partner. Sometimes life takes enough out of you that it doesn't leave much extra energy for other things.

I won't say that I'm quite there yet, but so far...this has been a long school year, folks. Its all good and I do love these kids but I feel like every third thing out of my mouth is, "baby.... what is wrong with you???" And I'm thinking about another side gig for the Dr. part of my career. No doubt, its a long shot (I'm over qualified in some areas, but not quite as specialized as they might looking for), but because I'm a crackhead like that, I'm already thinking about what I might wear to an interview.

So oh yeah. JC. The whole bit of this particular convo was about just writing and not worrying about what to write about. Just write about something like your fears or something.

It got me thinking about my own fears. I expect that this could be some deep and philosophical post about fears of the unknown or being alone. Yeah. I don't sweat that so much. The unknown will be what it will be. I'll deal with it then. I can handle me. Being alone isn't so bad, and often its a choice so if you don't like it, do something about it. I don't worry about finances. I plan well. I am sincerely grateful for what I have. I have no reason to think the carpet is going to get yanked and if it does, I'll deal then. I'm not afraid of high crime neighborhoods since I've spent most of my life in the middle and on the edges of them. I'm not afraid of getting assaulted. I take as many steps as possible to avoid that. I carry mace. I walk with a buff pup who under no circumstances wants anyone too close to his mom. I don't go anywhere after dark alone. I lock my doors. And anyone who wants to steal me...is going to have to shoot my ass first, cuz I am scrappy and I ain't getting in a car with you because I'm also not afraid to have someone pull a gun on me.

I am, however, totally what you call cautious. Which in my mind is different than scared. No, I am not going out any farther in the ocean, I'm not a good swimmer. If I can touch, I am safe. No, I am not driving any faster than 35 miles an hour in this ice storm. I lived in Alaska for 19 years and I know for a friggin' fact, if I go any faster, I can spin out, like that asshole in the ditch just did. No. I am not going any closer to the edge of that cliff, I am clumsy and trip and that's a long way down. No. I am not answering my door if I don't know you are coming. I don't need to hear what a stranger has to say, sell, or show me. And while chances are slim its a home invasion thing, if it is, I am safe on this side of the door.

But yes. I will bust on an active gang member in my class. I will put his ass right in his place. I know the rules. Yes. I will pet that pretty little pit bull with the light eyes (is this what they call it on dogs?) that is wiggling its tail at me in Pet Smart. Regardless of breed, I've never been afraid of a dog unless its chewing on my leg. And I try to deal with them on their terms. Which is why I've likely never had one chew on my leg. I will snowboard and ski. I'll be safe. Bruised, but safe, knowing my limits. I will walk in the morning. I'll watch my back, stay by the houses instead of in the woods and take mace. And WD, who apparently, most strangers ARE afraid of.

I am however, really scared of frogs. Lizards. Snakes. Mice. Birds. Heights. The first five are sort of silly. Heights is no joke and nearly paralyzing. Don't travel with me if you have a problem with me taking the elevator instead of the escalator anywhere higher than one floor. I am also, as I learned this summer, afraid of sticking my foot in something that isn't sand while in the ocean. Well I'll be dammed.

I also scream like a b-movie hooker. Yeah. Nothing sucks the cool out of you like squealing like a stuck pig who's also being held up. I think, while I am regularly silly and seldom serious, I am typically fairly quiet. I mean, I'm not a wall flower or someone who won't talk (I have no tolerance for stupid, forced small talk, however). I just don't have a loud voice. Servers in restaurants never hear me. I had to work hard on a classroom voice and people regularly ask me to repeat myself. But let a frog jump out of my garden at me. I have no doubt my voice carries around a quarter mile radius.

It makes me think my fears are really pretty silly. Except my fear of heights. I mean, you can fall off of heights.... My god daughter (who is 5) asked me about the fear of birds..."you don't like Robins, Auntie Err?" Um. I just don't want them too close to me.

So.
What does this have to do with any-damn-thing?

I dunno. Probably very little. Except that my fears are just one more thing about me that doesn't make any damn sense.

Trash Day

shit, people. i don't even have the juice or the attention span to do a trash day.
gah.

7th grade is junior high hell.
The only good thing, is hearing 'hiiii, mama' when they walk in. Only a couple of my passive aggressive females call me Dr. Err...and I ain't got many of them. And one little turd insists on calling me Mrs. Err... Wrong answer little man, try again.
I REALLY need to quit listening to old TuPac and WuTang clan on the way to work. Makes me have a serious attitude when I go in. JayZ gives me road rage.... Also not a good thing. Can't you just see me tellin' a kid my first period of the day, "shitchoassdown"
Heh.

I need to go transplant some day lillies and pick some tomatoes.
WD will no doubt be loads of help....

Wordsmith's Challenge

He pulled a crumpled soft pack of camels out of his coat pocket. Damn. It was coat weather. At least at night it was. Soon it would be time to order pumpkin pie with The Kid instead of apple. Or hell, maybe he was just getting old. Sure as hell felt that way. He looked at his watch. 7:55. Three minutes to suck down his weed before the kid got here and gave him hell about smoking it. She’d give him hell for smoking anyway. She always did. He certainly didn’t raise her to let shit go.
He took a deep light up drag. Better be quick about it. He didn’t raise that girl to be late, either.
He watched the blonde at the table ahead of him. She was surely waiting on a date. He’d lay money on it. She was smoothing and patting her napkin, then her dress, then the cuffs on her sweater. Then back to her napkin. She’d not even taken her purse off from her shoulder. He coughed and nearly chuckled audibly as he exhaled, scratching his chin with the back of his thumb, smoke curling around his hand and face. It was like watching some strange damn dance. Or good luck ritual. Must be a first date. Or a break up date. He wondered how her father had raised her to be so unsure of herself.
The Kid would pick up on that, no doubt about it. She’d nod the blonde’s way and roll her eyes. AT the very least she would roll her eyes. Last Thursday, on Pie Date Day, they had seen a young woman in a dress that had surely come from “Hookers R Us.” The Kid had thanked him right then and there for raising her not to show her ass out in public like that. All the tables around them had snickered. Maybe he should have raised her to be a little more discreet. It would be a hell of a lot less fun, though. And after all, he’d clearly not raised her to show her ass.
7:57. He flipped his butt out into the street. The restaurant was known for its hero sandwiches, but the pie was damn good, too. Coffee tasted like bitter highway mud though. 7:58. The Kid should be here now. Always early that kid. He asked the pert young server for a slice of apple pie for himself and peach for the kid and a cup of unleaded coffee for each of them. It was the same every week unless pumpkin pie was the seasonal favorite. Then they both had pumpkin. Almost time for pumpkin, it was.
As the waitress dropped off two cups of coffee promising pie soon, he noticed that the blonde in front of him had stopped smoothing everything in sight. Indeed as she looked towards the door she looked horrified. He looked at his watch and became a bit horrified himself. It was 8:01.

I'm Not Afraid of the Wind...But I Don't Like Flying Monkeys

I’ve talked before in previous blogs (where I neglected to regularly put on my Clarkett Kent blogospehere glasses) about duality of my youth. I think lots of kids who grew up with a dad who was in the military and then worked on the Trans Alaska Pipeline had that. And yeah… there are way more kids like that than you think. When you’re the kid of a tattooed maintenance man who makes 6 figures, that’s just the beginning of an interesting childhood. When I feel nostalgic, there are very few stories of the time Pinky got caught on the top of the slide and they had to call the fire department for me. I’ve got, however, no less than three stories of the time that guy got jerked out of his car through the window stories.

Yesterday, the weather took me on a trip in the way back machine to a time when I lived in a place where the earth was constantly trying to kick your ass. Things tend to be intense in Alaska. Everything is just harder there than it is in the lower 48. Shoveling a foot of snow off from your car with a 6 inch scraper and your coat sleeve after a movie, walking on ice that Chinook winds have left smooth and with a half inch of water on top, bears that also utilize the local bike path, and frozen nose hairs at the bus stop. Maybe, that was the worst. Ok. It is all beautiful and majestic and stuff…but whatever… so is where I live now, so is North Carolina, so is Seattle. Most places are beautiful if you slow down enough to look. For my money, the beauty of where I live now, coupled with real cities that aren’t a 3 hour plane ride away, and more than one road in and out of town is totally better than what I had in Alaska. And plus… my hometown isn’t regularly trying to whoop my ass.

Well. Yesterday, it gave it the good old college try. There were gusts up to 75 mile an hour winds. That’s a breezy Tuesday in the 907. However, apparently, down here this is a pretty big deal. The trees are bigger here than in Alaska and they’re built closer to homes etc. The buildings are solid, but not meant to withstand 8 feet of snow, earthquakes and 100 mile an hour mountain winds. On my Sunday afternoon out, TB insisted that we go home NOW when the power went out at TJ MAXX. I got a lecture on how it was a horrible day out. He began ranting about the danger of house parts and trees flying around like a game of Mario Cart on the way home. And I suppose he was right to some extent, because apparently, in the heartland, 75 mile an hour winds are enough to peel the very roof off the 84 Lumber. That was an interesting bit of scenery on the way home ….

*giggle*

I like to think that I am a product of my hometown. Not Alaska, despite 19 years there. The way I talk, the work I do, the way I relate to people and the people I relate to have always been a direct result of the other half of my upbringing. I like to think that my time in Alaska really only gave me the need to sleep outside occasionally and the need to strap a board to my feet and slide down a mountain every now and again. But clearly, it gave me a total indifference to dangerous weather. Even watching the roof roll up and blow off the 84 Lumber and blow away didn’t freak me out. I am not impressed with a roof unless it blows off a house. And even then, you don’t have to worry until it slams into your 2nd floor windows.

Until yesterday, I’d damn near lost that childhood memory beneath all the car window ass beating memories. I was 3. Maybe 4. And the Chinook winds had blown through Anchorage making the whole town feel like the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. My poor mom, who’d been jerked out of a big city into what was in the late 70’s still very much the wilds of Alaska was freaking the hell out. We had the standard issue Alaska home. Chalet style (all that snow needs a steep roof to slide off from…), deck across the front, and a basement that wasn’t totally a basement, there were maybe four feet above ground and windows across that area. We had a neighbor who had a 90 some percent wolf hybrid dog with gold eyes who used to come and peer at us down there. They were good sized windows, maybe 3 feet tall.

My dad had just started working for the pipeline service company. This means that while he was working in the state, he was some where near a thousand miles away from home. My mom was convinced the roof was going to blow off. She told him that when he called to check in for the evening (something he did every single night, no matter how tight money was for nearly 25 years). He chuckled, thinking that my very imaginative and still adjusting to Alaska city girl mom was totally over reacting. She was mad at his being so tickled by the fact that the roof might very well blow off (wonder where I get it?). So we did what you always did in Alaska… we went to bed and waited for the weather to get normal.

At some point in the middle of the night there was a horrendous crash. It was the kind of crash that made you wish it was just an intruder. It sounded like our house had been hit by a freight train. Clearly, that was impossible. So naturally, when we got up to see what the commotion must have been, we realized it wasn’t a train, but instead the roof from the house across the street. And it was in our basement. Over the 25 years that my dad worked on the ‘pipeline, my mom called him at work 3 times. Twice she called for deaths in the family. The other time was this night. I don’t remember much else but nailing rugs over the broken glass and my mom being very animated saying, “I TOLD you!!!!”

I don’t remember how we got the roof out of the basement, but we did. I also remember having to have our roof fixed. It didn’t blow into anyone’s basement, but it did lift over and inch and a half off the rest of the house.

Today, it is Monday. It is 9:37. I am in bed with my laptop and my 2nd cup of coffee. TB is still asleep. It was a snow day. Or a wind day, I guess. All the schools in the area are closed due to debris and I’m not really sure what. There comes a point, folks, where you don’t much care why you get a surprise day off. I’ll relax a little, and go start some clean up. My gardens are totally decimated. Cosmos and Cleome lying flat, I hate to see what has happened to my peppers and tomatoes. My compost bin is in the middle of my yard and WD is still hesitant to go out. But my neighbor’s roof seems to still be on her house where it belongs and I’m glad about that. And while I don’t really understand why I have a day off (school got canceled in Anchorage once for 2 days after a volcano blew and dumped several feet of ash on the ground, but that’s about it) I am not complaining any either. Being a candy ass…is kind of nice.

*sort*

TB is gone and I can't work the TV in the bedroom....

Dr. Err, my ass.

Indulge me for a second, will ya?

Most days, I am up by 5 a.m. I stumble outta bed, let WD (wonder dog) out to pee while I empty the dishwasher. Then I put on my shoes and head down to the mill for a couple-a-three miles. I would much rather run outside, but I prefer to run in the morning and right now, its dark as shit at 5:15. I get off the mill and stretch out. Recently, WD has started to howl at me when I finish running while I stretch. Not sure about that… I am sure, however that I hate to stretch. I’m not naturally bendy. Tall women are usually not. I have to work at it. I do yoga to try and help me. I suck. It’s the only gym class I’ve ever not been good at. It is typically easy for me to skip my stretch as time is valuable, but I am becoming increasingly aware that it will be what keeps me from hurting myself again. I have blown both hips out. The first time, I was rehabbing it for almost a year and a half. I was told I wouldn’t run again. I certainly don’t run nearly as well as I once did (hell, I don’t walk as well), but I am running. That is the hip with the Rosie the Riveter tattoo. The second time, it wasn’t as bad, I had a good doctor and while my miles are still low, I’m getting in 8 miles or so a week and so I am back to trying to build my base.
Last week I took a day off because my calf (on the side where I have PF) was so tight I couldn’t flex it. More stretching. Some icing. By yesterday, after an hour of walking with WD and a 2 mile shortie run, it felt pretty ok. My hip however, is sore.
I asked TB if I should take the day off.
I didn’t ask because I needed permission or he knows any more about running than I do. I checked with him, because I worry about using excuses and slacking. Don’t get me wrong. I love to run. I love how it makes me feel, the time being sweaty and physical. I love what I know it is doing for my body. How my doctors comment on my low heart rate. However, its hard damn work.
My mileage is not so much hard. Yet. 2 miles is easy. 10….much harder. But the getting up at 5 to run, then walking WD for an hour, doing chores and THEN leaving for work…only to come home, like I did yesterday, walk WD some more, and trim the hell out of my holly bushes out front. That’s another story, folks. That is difficult, sometimes.
And as tired as I am now….once those Saturday runs get up around ten miles or so, I’m wondering where the energy will come from.
But at the same time, I tend to over do. I’m not some exercise junkie gym whore, don’t get me wrong. I would describe my life as active, however. I’ve been in rehab a million times for hips, PF, etc. If I can physically do something at the time, I tend to think, “what the hell…go for it” And then something hurts. So I spend a lot of time wondering… am I slacking or being smart? And really, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’ve decided to move from my 5 day training program to every other day for the month of September. I’ll still try to increase my mileage (beginning tomorrow with a 3 mile LR….yeah, I said long run and 3 miles n the same sentence…buzzoffaboutitimbuilding….). Come October, I’ll re evaluate. Until then, I’ll continue to increase my stretching time and my other cross training to make the rest of me stronger (cuz I don’t enjoy my current HM2PT- half marathon to physical therapy- training plan).
I don’t usually write about my running (um, because what’s funny, touching, thought provoking about my thick ass jiggling its way around my neighborhood for several miles?). But I am still concerned about the possibility of me being a slacker. And writing what I’m doing makes it feel more like a plan (not a slack). And that makes me feel better.
And since blogs really are some self indulgent little interweb suckers, it feels appropriate.

Inside the real Dr. Err's house

I have, maybe, a slight furniture addiction. You have shoes, or electronic gadgets or earings…soshuddupaboutit. I only have a few pieces that aren’t old. Functional shit that I had to have, like my book cases. But they, at least, look old. Almost all of my furniture is what they call, ‘farmhouse primitives.’ Which is real damn funny when you consider that I’ve never so much as set foot in a farm house. Most of what I live with was constructed not by a company, but more likely by some farmer/carpenter/handyman just prior to the Civil War. There are all kinds of ways that you can tell, but you didn’t on purpose click on a history of furniture blog, did you?

I like the clean lines, the worn areas, the rough areas and the cool technologies of the time (like keeping doors of cabinets shut by turning the knobs to the side). I like how it feels to live with old things. Knowing that your pie safe or dry sink has seen countless wars, families, good times and bad times is somehow reassuring. It reminds you that time rolls on. I feel like these things are special. I feel privileged to get to be the keeper of them for a time. I have collected slowly since I was young and I find myself attached to most of my pieces. That said, I don’t buy new whatever usually. I just move stuff. Dry sinks in the hall way, dressers in the kitchen, a pie safe in the living room.

I also feel like it’s a more green way to go about my life. I’m recycling old furniture instead of filling landfills with trends that have ended. Really, though, I’m sure that’s a stretch and no doubt you’ll read in my blog someday about how I’ve recently started glowing in the dark or some damn thing because of led paint from my furniture.

It’s no secret I tend to lean toward the old from my mom, who got it from her grandmother who despite being very seriously economically fragile had a lovely house. I thought until I was near twenty that they were wealthy. Until I did the math that pointed out how no one with any serious jack lived in a triple in a neighborhood that I like to describe as, “one that is on the news a lot.” On top of that, WM has a shop that is a kind of a cross between Crate and Barrel, Restoration Hardware and a back East antique shop. She’s been in the business since I was around 12. That’s twenty years I’ve been hustling antiques with her. I remember being in 6th grade and getting a treadle sewing machine for Christmas. IRL friends....its the one that the old record player sits on under the MLK picture. I can’t even count the times I’ve sat in a crowded car with some damn thing jammed in my ear or on my lap or under my feet. Or more recently driving a loaded down truck that makes me look like Fred Sanford himself. WM and I regularly hum the theme song during these times. And folks, you can’t lean to the side enough to compensate for looking like the Beverly Hillbillies when you’re driving through Buckeye Fried Chicken ….

One of the times that we loaded a truck down like this was soon after moving back to our home state when I was about 19. My mom had bought a beautiful pie safe at a farm auction with blue milk paint. It was larger than most, over 5 feet tall and almost 4 feet wide. It weighed roughly 90 million pounds. So naturally, WP (wonder Pop) and I had to carry it across a farm and into a ditch. As we straddled the ditch (me whimpering not because of the heavy thing or splinters, but because there had to be snakes in there…DADDY!!!!!) we somehow broke the back leg the rest of the way off (many of these pieces had been chewed on by rats or in homes that had flooded). WM was pissed at the both of us. It took up all the room in their Explorer. Thinking back, I don’t know how in the holy hell it fit in there in the first place, but I knew that riding home with one pissed off WM in my lap for an hour was step 1.

It was one of the first pieces she put in the original building of her new shop after closing the one we had left across the country. I loved it. It was a caliber of farm house primitive that I’d only seen in Country Living. Needing storage she decided to mark it NFS (not for sale). Over the years many people tried to buy the piece. As I became an adult with an adult job, a married person, and then a homeowner, I coveted the piece even more. Particularly because I worked part time in WM’s shop and opened it lovingly every day to pull stock. Every time she would comment on how someone had made a generous offer, I would remind her that if she ever were to sell it… I wanted first dibs.

Eventually, she moved into a 4,000 square foot new shop with a whole storage room and shelves and new fangled things like work tables (I’d priced for ten years in my lap). The blue cupboard stayed behind in storage in the old shop. I reminded WM that someday, if she didn’t want it, I would buy it and that I called ‘dibs.’ She told me, that she wouldn’t sell it to me. It was a particularly horrible time in becoming Dr. Err. It was a time when I didn’t know if I was cut out to be Dr. Err, if I could do it, or if I even wanted to. She told me, very matter-of-factly that when I became Dr. Err, I could have it.

Don’t look too shabby, do it?

Music Soul Child?

I love music. I really do. I'm not one of those people who knows a whole helluva lot about it or anything. Like my best-friend-in-law (yeah. that's a 'nuther blog.) writes blogs on music, and one of my UPNORTH buddies is an entertainment editor, and some people know band members names and band organizations and.... stuff I don't even know. I just like to sing along (and very likely I'm using the wrong words when I do). But that doesn't detract from my love of music.

I don't play an instrument or sing. I mean I sing. I'm sure you've heard me if you know me in real life. And while my tune-age might not be stellar...I got a lot of soul. And no one has ever laughed at my singing. But its not anything I've got any desire to do outside of walking down High Street singing the end hook to Posion with you. I might- when on an airplane try to remind you of that Ralph Tresvant song that goes I've been thinking lately 'bout be-ing single...or just alone...., And no lie, in the shower is where I channel my inner Aretha.

I'm also not one of those people who likes everything. I can boil my musical taste down pretty clearly. With the exception of the few Rock bands I like, and the odd ball Fiona Apple-esq artist and Jeff Woodell (who I also just love both musically and personally) I pretty much just like Soul music.. do you like good music? that sweet soul music? I like Motown, Rap, R&B, the blues (like BB King and KoKO Taylor...notsomuch Stevie Ray Vaugh) I like old jazz, I like new jazz. I always tell people my mother raised me right.

Music speaks to me. I can hear a particular lyric and find myself teared up and unable to pull my shit together. Which is kind of a big deal if you know me.... The Game has a song out right now called My Life. Weezie has a line in it that goes, Dear Lord, you’ve done took so many of my people but I’m just wonderin’ why You haven’t taken (my life? x3)Like what the hell am I (doing right?) . That hit me like an arrow through the heart. Almost ran off the end of my treadmill. When I was becoming Dr. Err, any song about being a hustler, staying on your grind, etc was my anthem. Angry rock songs always get played twice in a row on my IPOD on a particularly difficult run. Or on a drive when I'm pissed about something. The music...it moves me.

But mostly, as I get older and now have a huge list of songs I love. After all, I inherited all of the ones WM loves, some that TB has shared, and even some that I picked up from WM's father. If nothing else, I am grateful to him for taking me to my city's jazz festival when I was four. I remember thinking, "wow....this is what cool is...."

I remember singing Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave, the Commodores, the Temptations, Four Tops and always Smokey Robinson in the car with my mom when I was too little to remember much of anything. I don't love you....but I need you..... Like my mom sang it to me, I sang it to my God daughter on my back porch when she was about 6 months old on a freakishly warm spring night. She tried to sing along with me going, 'AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH' as loud as she could.

In high school, I couldn't walk down the hall without someone singing Poison at least once during the day. Never trust a big butt and smile..... I can hear the music we danced to as kids (and my men were always dancers, people...Color Me Badd hair or high top fades and Cross Colors all of 'em) and still feel what it was like to be 'out.' To be dancing close with some boy who was slightly sweaty in his rayon shirt of many patterns and dress slacks and wearing way too much Drakkar. You'd come home smelling like him and wonder if he was smelling like Chanel no 5. Was he at home, now, smelling his shirt and thinking of you? Even then I doubted it. The boys I ran with still wouldn't have been home at curfew. Instead, one of my boys would have likely been smelling like me in a 7-11 parking lot, listening to NWA, telling his boys how I had booty for days and how he might call me.

But the New Jack Swing formed so much of what I was as a teenager. All of us girls from Around the Way still talk about it. The songs were all about how fine a woman was and her worth. I knew I deserved a man with sensitivity. And that if I ever chose to leave a man, I was worth a song like Boys II Men's Please Don't Go Away From Me. I wanted to be the girl who would make a man say, "your love makes my head spin 'round n 'round n a daze...". BBD's When will I see You Smile Again made me cry every damn time. How some stupid Eric Clapton song was my junior prom theme song when Jodeci had just dropped Forever My Lady is beyond me. And don't even get me started on Troop's I Will Always Love You.

Not that some songs weren't just about getting some ass. Keith Sweat's Make you Sweat is still one of my favorites. When I saw New Edition a couple of years ago (yes, Johnny Gill made me cry...) SILK opened for them and naturally they played, Freak Me. I told TB that if I had a dollar for every hood who sang that in my ear while we danced, I'd have like eight bucks or something. And I still can't help but grin as I write that even 15 years later.

I still dance. My tail feathers are older, but still got to get their shake on, occasionally and my friends still tease me about, 'thats yo song, gurrrlll' every time a song about trunks full of junk are played by a DJ. And it still embarrasses me. However, I very seldom slow dance as TB is the single no dancing boy in my history, and there are few boys who are allowed to dance with me. But, hoods still slide up behind me on occasion and I still wish that the DJ would throw on It Takes Two so we could really get down. I still listed to the same station I always have. Its the same format of my city's "best rap and r&b." But now, overwhelmingly, every song is about a stripper. I wonder what the girls I teach think their role in a man's life will be... For the record, I am over hearing about strippers. Though, I have some of it on my IPOD. But when its set on random, the occasional New Edition, or TuPac, or someone else from my musical memory slips in. And damned if every time I don't feel just a little bit younger. Although, now when the Humpty Dance plays, I don't have to turn it down so my mom doesn't hear the lyrics....