Is It Friday Afternoon Yet?

Also, how's about I win the lottery or something?

Shoot.  This week has been hard.  It's always hard going back to school, and the first few weeks with students are always challenging.  It's hard to get up early in the morning (7:15 a.m. is way too early for anyone to be arriving at work), and it's hard to wear shoes, and it's hard to get back into the swing of school, especially when I'm suddenly supposed to be doing twice as much work in half as much time.

Add to all that the whole "tiny baby at home" thing, and I'm pretty tired.  I'm basically going to go get myself addicted to caffeine pillz because "THERE'S NO TIME!  THERE'S NEVER ANY TIME!" and then Matt will have to talk me down and tell me that, no, I won't be performing at that Hot Sundaes concert this evening.  C'mon.  Let's just watch it, shall we?

That is never going to be not funny.

Anyway, I was supposed to write a post yesterday because it was the ten year anniversary of my first date with Mr. Matt.  But I didn't because I was exhausted.  We didn't do anything exciting, either, because we both had to work and we're tired and old.  We did laugh, as we often do, about how our twenty-one and twenty-two year old selves would be shocked to see us now.  Matt cooks?  Mandy actually agreed to have a baby?  Science finally figured out how to create the cutest dog on the planet and he lives with us?  Whoa, whoa!  And how'd I get so fat?*  And how'd Matt get so skinny?

We've basically been giving ourselves rainchecks for birthdays and anniversaries and other days of note during the last six months or so, and I'm saving them up to cash in for a week-long margarita binge.  But it sure was fun yesterday to think about that first date, how we went to dinner at Applebee's (because we're classy like that) and then to see Signs (I still can't get out the aluminum foil without being tempted to make myself a hat) and how I was wearing my brown Gap favorite tee that I'll probably never get rid of.

Also, ten years is a long time.  A wonderfully long time.

Here is where I would put in a picture of Matt and me when we were young and first dating, but I don't know where it is, and, plus, we were drunk and busted looking in most of those pictures anyway.  Since I only ever take pictures of Charlie and Mitch these days anyway, look at them instead.  Pretend that Mitch is me and Charlie is Matt if you must.

Oh, wait.  Stop pretending that Charlie is Matt.  

This is totes like our first date.  Matt was drooling over his food and I got up in his face and begged for it. (see, also: the last ten years)

And, whoop, whoop!  The weekend is fast-approaching!  Hope yours is the bee's knees!

*Damn you, sedentary lifestyle, pasta, and Oreos.

Update!

I know it's already weekend time again, but I totes need to share some of the fun we had last weekend when Grandma Carol, Grandpa B, and Aunt Darcey came to visit. 

We ate and talked and laughed and ate some more. I got to take them to some of my favorite spots in the SAV, like Back in the Day Bakery, of course (a hit!). 

And we went to the train yard that is by the railroad museum so that Grandpa and Darcey could ride one of the antique trains. And Grandpa got a conductor's hat. Because nothing on earth is better than Grandpa B wearing a conductor's hat. Nothing. 

It was such a fun and relaxing weekend, and it really helped me to take my mind off of the anxiety that I had about returning to work on Monday. I was anxious because I didn't know how it was going to work logistically (we've been terrible about getting our wee one on any kind of reliable schedule) and how I was ever going to get enough sleep and how would pumping work and would I even remember my students' names and would I hate my job now that I have a baby? (And such a cute baby at that!)

So I returned to work on Monday, nervous, tired, and feeling a little bit overwhelmed.  And HOT DAMN I LOVED IT! I've never had May mornings where I was delighted to be walking the halls of my school, and I don't think I've ever been so tickled to be wearing heels and clothes that weren't pajamas, either. It was really nice to see my students, and all of the hugs and well-wishes sure made me feel loved and appreciated. 

Being back at work has been great (except for the day that I spilled an entire bottle of breastmilk in my lap--that was pretty awful). I've enjoyed my job, and really relished the opportunity to get out of the house each day. And while it's been hard and tiring, it's good for us mostly because it's given me the time away that I need to actually start missing my little Charlie.* I miss him just the right amount. And he misses me just the right amount, too. We can get kind of sick of each other after weeks and weeks of being together nonstop.  

Gratuitous baby picture.

So now, when I walk into my house, and my snugglin' pup greets me at the door and Matt walks over holding our cute little boy, I happily grab that baby and kiss him and cuddle him, and I so appreciate being able to appreciate being his mom. 

 ****Charlie, if you're reading this far, far in the future. . . Well, if you're old enough to read then you're old enough to know that your mom just isn't a baby person. I probably like you way better now. Unless you became a republican. Jokes. You can be a republican if you want. I probably deserve it, anyway, for being so obsessed with Family Ties.****

Christmas to Me

Oh man, I'm kind of disappointed with myself because here I am, almost two weeks after Thanksgiving, and the only Christmas decoration I have up in my house is a strand of lights that I draped over a curtain rod to make it feel like the tree is here.  I did manage to get the Christmas stuff down from the attic, but it's just sitting here in boxes.  There's no tree smell in our house because we don't have our tree yet, and the rooms are woefully devoid of my garish and gaudy Christmas decor.

The mantle last year.  Or the year before that.  Who knows?

And because I've been so busy/lazy (Matt says that the only difference between my awake self and my asleep self is whether the ipod in my hand is illuminated), I haven't even managed to muster up the excitement about Christmas that I usually have.  Shoot.  But I'm working on it.  And I've decided to start here, with an essay that is sure to ignite in me some excitement for Christmas.

I didn't even know that this essay existed until a couple of months ago when I was teaching To Kill a Mockingbird to my ninth graders and one of my coworkers loaned me a new documentary about Harper Lee and the book,  Hey, Boo: Harper Lee and To Kill a Mockingbird.  If you're a big fan of the book (and, for real though, why wouldn't you be?), I'd really recommend putting this documentary on your Netflix queue*.  It was engaging enough to keep 37 ninth graders awake at 8:00 in the morning, and it had this really interesting little story in it, which Lee wrote about in "Christmas to Me."  So now I'll turn things over to ol' Harpy (she loves it when you call her that), even though I'm a little loath to put my words right next to hers.  Enjoy.

Christmas to Me: an essay by Harper Lee


Several years ago, I was living in New York and working for an airline, so I never got home to Alabama for Christmas—if, indeed, I got the day off. To a displaced Southerner, Christmas in New York can be rather a melancholy occasion, not because the scene is strange to one far from home, but because it is familiar: New York shoppers evince the same singleness of purpose as slow moving Southerners; Salvation Army bands and Christmas carols are alike the world over: at that time of year, New York streets shine wet with the same gentle farmer’s rain that soaks Alabama’s winter fields.


I missed Christmas away from home, I thought. What I really missed was a memory, an old memory of people long since gone, of my grandparents’ house bursting with cousins, smilax, and holly. I missed the sound of hunting boots, the sudden open-door gusts of chilly air that cut through the aroma of pine needles and oyster dressing. I missed my brother’s night-before-Christmas mask of rectitude and my father’s bumblebee bass humming “Joy to the World.”


In New York, I usually spent the day, or what was left of it, with my closest friends in Manhattan. They were a young family in periodically well-to-do circumstances. Periodically, because the head of the household employed the precarious craft of writing for their living. He was brilliant and lively; his one defect of character was an inordinate love of puns. He possessed a trait curious not only in a writer but in a young man with dependents; there was about him a quality of fearless optimism—not of the wishing-makes-it-so variety, but that of seeing an attainable goal and daring to take risks in its pursuit. His audacity sometimes left his friends breathless—who in his circumstances would venture to buy a townhouse in Manhattan? His shrewd generalship made the undertaking successful: while most young people are content to dream of such things, he made his dream a reality for his family and satisfied his tribal longing for his own ground beneath his feet. He had come to New York from the Southwest and, in a manner characteristic of all natives thereof, had found the most beautiful girl in the east and married her.


To this ethereal, utterly feminine creature were born two strapping sons, who, as they grew, discovered that their fragile mother packed a wallop that was second to nobody’s. Her capacity to love was enormous, and she spent hours in her kitchen, producing dark, viscous delights for her family and friends.


They were a handsome pair, healthy in mind and body, happy in their extremely active lives. Common interests as well as love drew me to them: and endless flow of reading material circulated amongst us; we took pleasure in the same theatre, films, music: we laughed at the same things, and we laughed so much in those days.


Our Christmases together were simple. We limited our gifts to pennies and wits and all-out competition. Who would come up with the most outrageous for the least? The real Christmas was for the children, an idea I found totally compatible, for I had long ago ceased to speculate on the meaning of Christmas as anything other than a day for children. Christmas to me was only a memory of old loves and empty rooms, something I buried with the past that underwent a vague, aching resurrection every year.


One Christmas, though, was different. I was lucky. I had the whole day off, and I spent Christmas Eve with them. When morning came, I awoke to a small hand kneading my face. “Dup,” was all its owner had time to say. I got downstairs just in time to see the little boys’ faces as they beheld the pocket rockets and space equipment Santa Claus had left them. At first, their fingers went almost timidly over their toys. When their inspection had been completed, the two boys dragged everything into the center of the living room.


Bedlam prevailed until they discovered there was more. As their father began distributing gifts, I grinned to myself, wondering how my exceptionally wily unearthments this year would be received. His was a print of a portrait of Sydney Smith I’d found for thirty-five cents; hers was the complete works of Margot Asquith, the result of a year’s patient search. The children were in agonies of indecision over which package to open next, and as I waited, I noticed that while a small stack of present mounted beside their mother’s chair, I had received not a single one. My disappointment was growing steadily, but I tried not to show it.


They took their time. Finally she said, “We haven’t forgotten you. Look on the tree.”


There was an envelope on the tree, addressed to me. I opened it and read: “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.”


“What does this mean?” I asked.


“What it says,” I was told.


They assured me that it was not some sort of joke. They’d had a good year, they said. They’d saved some money and thought it was high time they did something about me.


“What do you mean, do something about me?”


To tell the truth—if I really wanted to know—they thought I had a great talent, and—


“What makes you think that?”


It was plain to anyone who knew me, they said, if anyone would stop to look. They wanted to show their faith in me the best way they knew how. Whether I ever sold a line was immaterial. They wanted to give me a full, fair chance to learn my craft, free from the harassments of a regular job. Would I accept their gift? There were no strings at all. Please accept, with their love.


It took some time to find my voice. When I did, I asked if they were out of their minds. What made them think anything would come of this? They didn’t have that kind of money to throw away. A year was a long time. What if the children came down with something horrible? As objection crowded upon objection, each was overruled. “We’re all young,” they said. “We can cope with whatever happens. If disaster strikes, you can always find a job of some kind. Okay, consider it a loan, then, if you wish. We just want you to accept. Just permit us to believe in you. You must.”


“It’s a fantastic gamble,” I murmured. “It’s such a great risk.”


My friend looked around his living room, at his boys, half buried under a pile of bright Christmas wrapping paper. His eyes sparkled as they met his wife’s, and they exchanged a glance of what seemed to me insufferable smugness. Then he looked at me and said softly; “No, honey. It’s not a risk. It’s a sure thing.”


Outside, snow was falling, an odd event for a New York Christmas. I went to the window, stunned by the day’s miracle. Christmas trees blurred softly across the street, and firelight made the children’s shadows dance on the wall beside me. A full, fair chance for a new life. Not given me by an act of generosity, but by an act of love. Our faith in you was really all I had heard them say. I would do my best not to fail them. Snow still fell on the pavement below. Brownstone roofs gradually whitened. Lights in distant skyscrapers shone with yellow symbols of a road’s lonely end, and as I stood at the window, looking at the lights and the snow, the ache of an old memory left me forever.


This essay was originally published in McCall’s in December 1961.


*Oh, hey, there's a word I can play to use up all of those damned U's I have in Words with Friends!

Hey There!

Pssssht.  Last week was hard.  After a full week off for Thanksgiving, I returned to the harsh reality that, well, work is hard.  And kids are annoying right before Christmas.  And accreditation years at school are their own personal hell.  It was one of those weeks where I had to groan and pout and peel myself out of bed each morning, and where the only thing I wanted to do when I got home was take a coma nap.  So that's what happened.  There were coma naps and that was about it.

But this weekend brought with it returned motivation, a can-do attitude, and enough energy for me to become, (as Cassie always puts it and I always want to steal, but then I don't want to steal because then I'm a big fat stealer) "a whirling dervish of productivity."  And then I was feeling back on top of the world.  While the Christmas tasks aren't even close to being done, the miserable school tasks are well on their way--or at least enough on their way that I don't have to worry about them when I exit my classroom.

I'm so happy right now.  Happy that we have 1 1/2 episodes of Boardwalk Empire to catch up on, that my Christmas cards are ordered (and that I didn't have to pay anything for them because I won a $100 Shutterfly credit earlier this year!), happy that maybe--just maybe!--Newt Gingrich will be the Republican nominee, and happy that there's a big bowl of peppermint marshmallows just waiting for me to go ellipt so that I can eat them up without feeling guilty.  I'm happy that I get to read one of my faves, The Great Gatsby, with my juniors twice every day, and I'm happy that after nine more school days I won't have to see those same juniors for a while.  I'm happy that we're getting our tree this week and that I get to make my house into a really busy, super tacky, a little bit white-trash winter wonderland.  And I'm happy that I get to share this fun Christmas season with the cutest dog ever and the best husband ever and an active little fetus who's been going all Michael Flatley* on my insides today.

Here's what it's been looking like around here.

 Mitch needed to help load the refrigerator with beer.

 And tell Matt a very funny secret.

 This is how far I am with Christmas decorating.

 Cupcakes for a baby shower!  You probably forgot that I'm basically a professional baker.

 Pup was feeling a little down this weekend, which was probably more upsetting to Matt and me than it was to him.

 Talking to Shecky on speakerphone during ellipting.  It's kind of awesome.

 Peppermint creamy goodness.

 Human child has some work to do if he's going to be cuter than his brother.

 This totes could have been our Christmas card photo--you know, if Mitch didn't look like he had rabies and I didn't look like a ghost.  Oh well.

Soul. Mates.  

Happy week to you!  May it be full of marshmallows and Nucky Thompson.  And dogs.  Always dogs.

*His legs flail about as though independent of his body!

This and That

1.  So, Tanya told me that once a woman turns 30, her chances of being attacked drop by like 75%.  So that's comforting.  Now that I'm thirty I am too old and too frumpy to be worth attacking.  Matt says that it's because 30-years olds aren't walking around downtown drunk and stupid.  I say it's because of gravity.  Either way, it's nice to know that I'm less likely to be attacked.

2.  Nothing makes you feel older than high schoolers who are writing essays about time travel.  When they ask, "So, how were the '80s for you?" as though they're talking about the early days of the Roman Empire, you will feel old.  Also, they don't get Saved by the Bell references.  What is this world coming to?  And how am I supposed to teach what an aside is now?

[source]

3.  Happy birthday to Caitie!  It's not so bad, Cait.  Hell, you're less likely to be attacked!


4.  Someone buried a Milk Bone in the back yard.

5.  I am so proud of Tyler and Catelynn on Teen Mom.  Those kids sure are doing their best!  Keep on keepin' on, Tyler and Catelynn (and keep using birth control)!

[source]

6.  We got new neighbors in the house behind ours, and they have some kind of yellow lab mix dog.  He's cute.  Here's the thing, though.  He's Mitch's bark twin, and he barks a good bit, and I always end up walking to the back to see what's wrong with my pup, only to find that he's sitting on the couch or under the bed just chillaxin'.  I wonder if Mitch is weirded out by his bark twin?

Oh, you want to see another picture of my dog sitting on the couch?  Okay!

7.  When I was at the BlogHer conference a few weeks back, I got a bunch of swag.  (Definitely can't talk about swag without feeling super douchey like Michael Scott on The Office.)  I ended up leaving most of it on a park bench with a note for someone to just take it because I had a tiny suitcase and all of the shipping stores were closed.  But I held on to a few items, one of which was a Tempurpedic all-purpose pillow.  OMf'ingG this is the greatest pillow that man has ever created.  I basically carry it around from room to room, finding excuses to lie down (not hard to do) just so that I can use the pillow (and, also, be lazy).  It's a little pricey for a small pillow, but I'm obsessed.  I want about five more.  

8.  Making this for dinner right now.  (Yes, at 11:45.  We're nocturnal.)


9.  Making this for dinner for tomorrow.


10.  Haven't been this excited to see a Friday come in a while.  It's been a long week, and teenagers make me tired (why do they keep asking me questions all the time?).  Plus, we've got some awesome company arriving Saturday afternoon.  Plus, THREE DAY WEEKEND!  Woo-hoo!

To sum up, let's extend three cheers to the following: food, pillows, dogs, awesome in-laws, Fridays, days of labor that are actual lazy days, Caities, birthdays, and not being attacked.

Weekend Fun

Man oh man I sure did need this weekend.

Here's something that definitely falls under the category of "good problems to have," but when you have two months off of work, and then your first two weeks back are the hardest that you have all year, you will be f'ing exhausted.  The kind of exhausted where your entire body aches and you're too tired to fall asleep quickly.  But it's all good, and most people don't have the good fortune of having two months off of work each year, so I'll deal.  Just don't be mad at me for being such a slackass with posting.

So this weekend was about sleeping, and watching it rain other places while it was gloriously sunny here.  And more sleeping (definitely took two separate naps yesterday).  And Dexter ellipting dates with the Matt.  (PS--you will ellipt very quickly when you are watching Dexter and feeling like you're running away from evil serial killers.)  And not one but TWO trips to Mexico (we're very big into traveling).

Here's what it looked like.

 Dog made himself an earthquake shelter.  We tried to tell him that we were safe, but he was having none of that.

 High class lunch. 

 We'll see just how idiot-proof growing basil is.  Our house is, after all, the place where plants come to die.

 Lest you begin to think that Matt is the cool one in our house, check out his fantasy football research.  

So happy to have a working dryer.

 Trying to keep Mitch from stealing gum right out of our mouths.

And, finally, it's essay-grading hell month.  Until my juniors take their graduation writing test on September 27, my school bag will look like this.

Fortunately, I've got some help.

Hope you stayed safe, that you have electricity, and that you're not swimming around in your own house.  (Unless, of course, your house has a swimming pool in which case I am extremely jealous of you.)

This is a boring post. But at least I'm not telling you too much about yesterday's visit to the vet.

Okay, listen.  This is the last time that I'm going to hound you to go enter to win the HomeGoods gift card on my reviews page.  The sweepstakes ends tomorrow, so you totes need to head over there to enter a comment.  Or chirp about it.  You and I both know you want to go shop at some HomeGoods.




I was going to post yesterday, but didn't because I had to take my little furry child to the vet, which proved to be quite traumatizing--both for the dog and for me.  After I dished the DISGUSTING deats to Cassie, she swore that if I posted them on the blog she'd unfriend me forever.  So I won't, but let's just say it was awful, and that afterward Mitch wouldn't even look at me, and I wanted to forget the whole experience so I went home and took a nap until almost 10:00 pm and only reason that I even got up then was because Matt had made chili dogs and Alexia fries for dinner, and I couldn't resist.

Poor little handled pup.

Anyway, aside from that, there's not much going on at la casa de M Cubedo.  You know, except for my recent mastery of Spanish.  Right now all of my energy is being consumed by the last week of school, which is simultaneously the easiest and the hardest week of the year.  The last week of school also really distorts my understanding of time; I did not know that time can, in fact, stand still.

Earlier this week, I was crazy productive at school--so productive that now I don't have much to do during my planning period.  Yesterday, then, I decided to take some pictures of what the last week of school looks like in my happy little room.  This was also a chance to play with Ann's 50mm lens.  If I could marry a camera lens (and if I wasn't already married to a human fellow), I would marry this lens.  But, alas, I'm neither into committing myself to inanimate objects nor am I a polygamist.  Oh well, can't please all the people all the time.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, what my classroom looks like.  This is really just a glorified version of that whole "what's in your purse" bull jive that I think is stupid, so I'm kind of a hypocrite.  Sorry about that.

Here's what makes me happy at work (oh, and I posted about the classroom itself a long time ago).

Freedom Tomorrow! 

Picture that I took in high school of one of my scariest and most hilarious teachers, Randy Richardson.  Occasionally the students will ask me if that's a picture of my husband, and I'll tell them that yes, yes it is. 

Better for grading your essays, my sweet!

Textbook accounting is the most fun.  And by most I do mean least.

Old magazines (early '60s) that I scored from the media center.  The kiddies love them.

                                                                   I am a schoolsupplyophile. 

This is the greatest stapler in the world.  If you have to staple things ever as a part of your job, treat yourself to one.  It has the best sound, and it staples stacks of papers like it's goin' out of style.  

Not that stapling stacks of papers was ever in style, but you know what I mean.

 No desk is complete without a Mitchouette.

 Kind of a writing utensil hoarder.

 Shakespeare insult mug, you whoreson villain!

Well, I told you that this post was boring.  I'm going to go see if Mitch and I are on speaking terms again.  If not, I'm going to suck up to him with slices of cheese and prosciutto.