When I arrived home from work during the second wave of unseasonal 30 degree weather, after having had two tortuously teasing days of 85 degrees before plummeting, I looked up and saw god's promise and smiled. Resilient tiny perfect pink buds were silently adorning the winter bare arms of our cherry tree. A sign that spring was coming.
Tiny pink blossoms
Silently wakes and hums spring
Songs of warm kisses
I knew that I had a full night of packing ahead of me, yet I did not start until midnight. Unfortunately, it was then I discovered that I had purchased the wrong color gala dress. My sorority, as it often does, was doing this matchy thing and wanted everyone in black. So, I went to the closet to grab my long black evening gown only to find it missing. I then began a deep dive search at one in the morning that literally ripped my closet apart. I pulled out boxes that were neatly stored as quiet as I could so as not to wake my hubbie, only to have a stack of shoe boxes topple over at one point eliciting an irritated grunt. Eventually, I had a vague recollection of bagging it to take to the dry cleaners. Only it never left the trunk of my car. If I was correct, it is still there and was now a balled up mess of wrinkles beneath a pile of other balled up messes that I forgot to drop off two months ago.
Switching gears, I dug out my old trusty dusty funeral dress. I must admit that it is not as bad as it sounds. It was actually really cute with a velour color and buttons all way down the front. The problem was that it was tainted with bad memories as I have worn it to the last five funerals that I attended. However desperation trumps bad juju. All I needed to do was find some rhinestone, gold, or silver shoes.
I immediately attacked my special shoe collection and began rummaging and tearing apart the once neatly organized storage box of once in a blue moon – rarely used if ever – (some never) overpriced gems. By the time I was done, every shoe that had the least bit of gild or shine lay strewn about me. Because I rarely – if ever – had the opportunity to be adorned in such beauty, I had to take them all out. I couldn’t even remember what was in the box and may or may not have discovered that I bought the same shoe twice.
So it’s now after two A.M and my husband is sawing logs pretty good. I used my phone’s flashlight to navigate the room and try them all on together with my funeral garb to see which shoe would finally have the chance to see the light of day. I slipped the dress over my head and proceeded to button it up. And stopped, or rather was forced to stop. I did not need the mirror to see that those buttons absolutely would not ever make it across the chasm of my belly to reach the other side. What in the world? When did this happen? I swear I just wore it five months ago. Am I bloated? Was it something I ate? How does this happen overnight?” I quietly lamented to the god of girth.
I swear I have not increased my intake of food. I eat the same amount and actually am drinking less. I stood there in the dim flashlight lit room staring at what clearly now looked like a 4 or 5 month pregnancy halting the buttoning process.I was so distraught. Life is not fair. I just know that menopause and maybe the fructose in that glass of wine did this to me.
I disappeared back into my closet and began quietly and sullenly digging around again. This time I checked the semi-formal knee length flocks and hoped that society would not secretly admonish me for a perceived lack of knowledge of formal vs semi-formal while smiling at me in the face and blowing air kisses. As it turns out, none of them fit either. I know I had been straggling that invisible size line where you can still wear your old clothes, but in the store you were forced to go up. It seems I have crossed that line.
Eventually, I did find one that would suffice, thank goodness. It had a looser skirt and was styled with the most wonderful adornment. It had a peplum waist that could easily disguise that abomination of a belly.
I am going to have to go shopping after this conference. And I have a feeling a preponderance of peplum style skirts and blouses will be dominating my closet in the unforeseen future… And a regular workout routine with be dominating my time.
The following is a love poem to my husband. Today we celebrate our 21st anniversary. The following will mean nothing to you, but everything to us.
21 Years of Memories
Walking hand in hand in Munich
Real Estate Lessons, Snorkeling, Barbados, and dancing on a boozy cruise
Boston Marathon
Dancing on the plaza in Boston
Red shoes in Denver
Climbing the mountain to Boulder
Wrapping a scarf around your neck atop a double decker bus in Paris
London Hoghead
Snow Mobiling and Ski Lessons in Whistler
My 50th birthday party
Four wheeling and horses in the Dominican Republic with our youngest love
St. Martin with the Gilchrist's 2025
Wedding Cruise
Your 50th birthday party at Tom’s house
Our son's Birth Day
Falling in love with St. Martin in 2012
Our son's wedding
Ghana, Africa
Cruise with AV and the Rosario crew
Budapest
The Baby Shower: The Next Chapter.
"Houston, we have a problem."
Everyday now for 16 days, I could not wait to sit down and start writing. Sometimes it was at 5:00 in the morning, other times it was late in the evening-- always before 12:00 because I did not want to miss the deadline. No matter the time, the page called to me, and it ran through my thoughts until I could find time to breathe life into it.
However, for the last two days, I began to feel the pull. A giant Wile E. Coyote Acme Magnet had been pointed towards me and I could no longer resist the draw of other obligations. Wilted organic veggies lay dying a slow death in the crisper as I ignored them preferring to dine instead on Lay's Cheddar Chips while writing. In the laundry room, a third hamper was now filled and overflowing and my drawers were almost depleted as the wash waited patiently for me to take notice. And my poor husband gave furtive glances afraid to suggest any modicum of time or food be thrown his way. I realized it was time. I needed to fulfill my wifely duties.
I suppressed my new addiction to the keyboard yesterday and found my way to the kitchen. I cooked dinner and accepted my husband's invitation to watch a movie. It was nice. I didn't realize that I had actually missed it (somewhat), but was I thinking about writing the whole time? I plead the fifth.
Lastly, today I opened my gradebook and found, or rather did not find, grades. I had not added the last two assessments. "What? How in the world did I do that?" I pondered. Then it hit me. Instead of coming home, cooking and cleaning and then grading into the night, I was rushing to my computer to write all the stories that fought for my attention all throughout the day. And that is when it hit me, it's a trade off. If I want to write, I have got to give up something in return. Will it be dinner, grading, lesson planning, work, husband, children, friends, the house, the wash...?
What are you giving up to hone your skills?
There once was a school with no fear.
Helter-skelter their plan so I hear.
“Let’s not make a fuss.
Put your kids on the bus.”
“They’ll be fine in the hallway.” Oh Dear!
So, there was a huge mega storm predicted for our state. EVERY SINGLE OTHER COUNTY in the state preemptively called for an early dismal the night before. One even said if you keep your kids home, it will not be counted against them. NOT US. At 10:41 a message went out that said we are not going to dismiss early. Four minutes later, my phone began screaming to seek shelter.
We sat on the floor in the hallway on our knees with our heads against the wall for forty minutes. Later we actually saw photos of a funnel cloud that was 8 miles from here. Currently, a teacher on planning is serving as bookie taking bets on when round two of the storms arrives. Others are betting on how long we’ll be stuck in the building until the storm passes. I saved some of my lunch in case of the latter.This is the true March Madness.
Hopefully, though, it will miss us and stay away until after the bell, and we are all home safe and sound – even the teachers with one-hour long drives towards the impending band of angry clouds.
Btw, the aforementioned poem was written in my head while on my knees during that tornado drill – wait, what do you call it when it's not a drill but not actually a tornado?
I kicked and I screamed as I taught,
But now I am feeling distraught.
They still used AI
I said as I cried,
And now I’m just grading a bot.
When I arrived home from work during the second wave of unseasonal 30 degree weather, after having had two tortuously teasing days of 85 deg...
