What a Bathrobe Means

A bathrobe means lots of things and has lots of purposes.

• You use it when you want to cover up ratty pajamas.
• You use it when you want to cover up other things.
• You use it when it's Christmas morning and pictures must be taken.
• It is a symbol of sickness. For example, when you have it on in the middle of the day, people think you must be sick, and then they may not ask you to do something.
• You wear it when you are busy in the mornings and you just don't have time to get properly dressed and then it is suddenly noon and the bathrobe becomes a symbol of laziness not busyness.
• A new one means you are serious about not looking too ratty or dumpy, but that bathrobes are just a necessary part of a wardrobe like pants or shoes.
• It is a Saturday or Sunday thing. You can wear it more on these days than in the middle of the week.
• It can be fuzzy for the winter, and "breezy" for the summer.
• If you wear it in the car to drive the kids to school, you are a slacker mom and can't get it together.

I have used my bathrobe in every one of these ways at some point in my life. Today, my bathrobe means that I have lots of school work to do and that I want to be comfortable doing it. But it is now nearly 1:30 and my bathrobe must give way to real life and real clothes.

Reading and Writing on the Couch, Pork Rinds and Such

I often worry that this school thing will all come crashing down around me. It just sort of nags at me all the time. My permanent spot seems to be the couch where I am reading and writing in odd positions that make my shoulder hurt. For those of you who know my sad, sad tale of woe about my shoulder, this is not a good thing.

This reminds me of a book called,  "She Got Up Off the Couch" by Haven Kimmel. It's about a mom who sat on the couch for 20 years eating pork rinds, watching TV and reading sci-fi novels, until one day she "got up off the couch," lost 100 pounds and went back to school.

OK, I just can't think about that too deeply.

 I haven't eaten pork rinds since my Dad would buy them at Seven-Eleven on the way home from Vernal, UT. Pork rinds are what you eat on the way home from Vernal. And sunflower seeds that you hack out the window. The ones that you don't hack out the window spill all over the seat and stay there for a long time. He would also buy orange circus peanuts that sit in your stomach like sicky-sweet Play-Doh.  No wonder I don't have much desire to go to Vernal. If I could be with Dad then I'd like it.

Wow, such randomness on a Wednesday night on the couch. Now I have the hiccups. And no, I have not been eating pork rinds or circus peanuts.

Winter's Back

Winter's back, hopefully just for a few days. I had almost packed away my bulky sweaters, but I guess I'm glad I didn't. Aww, I'm gonna pack them away anyway. I can't bear to actually wear them.

I put a bunch of white flowers with lots of greenery around the house for St. Patrick's Day. I usually cook corned beef and cabbage to get into the Irish spirit, but my husband is the only one who likes it. Everyone else gags, so I decided against it. I found an Irish stew recipe that I wanted to make, but I couldn't find leeks and rosemary or a "pint of Guiness beer" at my local Smith's. I wasn't about to go to the state liquor store just to make something traditional. So Darren and I went out and the kids ate a frozen pizza. Slacker mom! But those white flowers with greenery sure are pretty!

I tried to pinch Nathan yesterday for not wearing green and he said, "Hey, it's on my underwear!" Typical 8th grade response. The horror of it was, I could actually SEE his underwear because his pants were so slouchy, and that was troublesome. I told him to go put on a belt, that I never wanted to to see his plaid boxer shorts again! At least when they're on his body. Heaven knows I'll be seeing them in the laundry for the rest of my mortal existence . .

Speaking of the "L" word, there are about four clean piles down there that are screaming at me. At the bottom of the pile are Sammie's PIONEER TREK CLOTHES THAT SHE WORE IN JULY AND IS NOW JUST WASHING! I am so upset at this that I can hardly speak about it, let alone write about it. They have been fermenting in her room while her tarantula--Obamaniqua- feasts on live crickets and the beta swims in a fuzzy green bowl.

Speaking of Sammie, she just came  to me said, "Worst thing ever, Mom." I sat down to read Tale of Two Cities, and I woke up three hours later!" Maybe you should read something shorter and easier, I said. Too late now, she said. "I'm sorry, honey," I said.

I'm off to make strawberry shortcake with whipped cream for dessert. Darren is barbecuing hamburgers in the snow!

Life is so weird.

Fickle Pickle

I have always been fickle.

Luckily I have become less so as I grow older. But Fickle has showed up again--uninvited and definitely unwanted--and is seriously toying with me. It keeps telling me to change my mind about school-related projects. Two weeks ago it convinced me to change the topic of a major paper that was due in 10 days, and now it's telling me change the topic of a short story that's due tomorrow. The story was nearly written, but I didn't like it anymore. Fickle will do that to you. (Well, it also had no plot movement, said my writing teacher. She was right.)

I wish Fickle would go bother someone else, at least until the semester is over. Then I might be willing to entertain it when the topic isn't school. If the topic were flowers or desserts, or what movie to see . . . then Fickle and I could joyfully hang out together. And I know we'd have fun.

Look What Turned up in the Wash

Today I was performing the "L" word, resigned to its interminable presence in my life, dreaming somehow that the Downey was the blue sea, and the powdered Tide was the white sand . . . and then I woke up from my soap-filled delusion. First of all, I told myself, you don't even HAVE powdered Tide, it's liquid, and second, watching the spin cycle go around is about exciting as your life is going get on this March day in Happy Valley, Utah. To expect any more will only result in disappointment. 

But there was a bit of intrigue--just a flash mind you--when I discovered that some jeans pockets were a bit more bulgy (bulgier?) than usual. My first thought was, "What important piece of information have I missed because it's been wadded up in Nathan's pocket?" My second thought was, "Maybe it's cash!" My kids know that if their money goes through the wash it's mine. I tell them it's my payment for washing their dirty clothes.

I did give back a soggy $10 once, partly because it was $10 and not just loose change, and partly because it was "hard-earned baby sitting money." Through the waterfall of tears running down her face, my daughter told me that the kids she'd babysat for that measley $10 were horrible kids and she would never tend them again for any amount of money. And that she was so glad I'd found the money for the worst night of her life. How could I keep it?

Most of the time it's only loose change. But I've had some $1s at times and one time a $5. I guess laundry isn't entirely thankless.

So I examined the "bulge." It turned out to be a guitar pick that said "Pick Syd for Student Council," (cute) a hard as a rock tootsie roll, a study guide for the Constitution test, and a Media Center Lunch Pass Punch Card which had 10 punches left. To think that these precious things almost went through the wash!

Honors Classes in Utah

Even though I want to be an English teacher in Utah, and even though I am excited about the possibilities, I still get so frustrated with the status quo. The class sizes scare me more than anything, and this is the issue that is creeping into the quality of my own kids' educations.

At the local junior high, 70 kids tried out to get into honors geography and English, yet they accepted only 35. The other kids, who maybe just don't have that edge, are resigned to take regular English. This wouldn't be a problem if all the regular teachers were excellent. But that just isn't the case. I think a good teacher can make any class worthwhile an meaningful, whether it's regular or honors.

My son and his friends were in honors English in 7th and 8th grades. These are kids who score high on standardized tests and can write compelling essays. They are excellent students--they just aren't stellar students. Maybe they goof off too much, maybe they are a bit sassy. Maybe they turn in assignments late once in a while. But they are all honors students and should be challenged. I have studied the consequences when adolescents aren't challenged. They shut down. They coast. They wonder why they are sitting in this class when the work is dull and meaningless.

I am not the type of parent who believes her kids can do no wrong. I would never ask a teacher to change their grades or excuse their bad behavior.

So I hope that they will open another honors class for my son. I have petitioned the principal to consider this. If his response is negative, I know it will be because of budget constraints. I know that he does his best with limited resources. If he says yes, I will be happy for my son the other students who I know will thrive in a challenging class.

Xanadu

Darren and I went to see the Hale Center Theater's production of Xanadu last night. I loved the 80s garb--roller skates, shirts falling off the shoulders, leg warmers, side pony tails. It was a visual blast from the past.

But the music took me down memory lane, so far in fact, that I came home and made a Xanadu Pandora station.  Then I sat up singing Olivia Newton John's "Suddenly." The Bee Gees' "Tragedy" was on the list as well. I had to tell my kids all about my disco lessons in 1978 with my best friend, Teresa. Now that was a sight.


Listen to "Suddenly"

Listen to "Xanadu!"