I am like one of the Chinese mothers in The Joy Luck Club The one who fixes dinners and then says a disparaging remark about how the food looks or tastes, only she's really soliciting praise. I gave away one of my prologues to a piece of writing as a white elephant of all things, and as soon as she opened it and looked at what it was, I saw that look. The look was a brief eye roll, and I immediately wished I had never put it in the bag. I think I wanted someone to read it and tell me if it was good, but the person who left with it is very analytical and exact, and I'm not sure she would enjoy it for what it is.

Just like the Chinese mother, I said, "It's not very good."

And just like the soon-to-be son-in-law in The Joy Luck Club, my friend said, "We'll have to see." The son-in-law gave suggestions as to how to make the food better; my friend would do the same with the story. I already know how to make the story better--I just want someone to say it was good so that I can move on. Why I need that encouragement, I've no idea.

I am 37 years old and I should have had a novel written at this point. Twenty years ago (almost exactly) in Mrs. Tush's Creative Writing class, I made the decision that I would be published by 30. What do 17-year olds know about time, anyway? The idealistic 17-year old me didn't care about publishers or their quirks or their demands. She just thought of writing something so good that she'd be able to meet Stephen King or V.C. Andrews.

Ah, well. Dreams of a teenager go unrequited. I'll await for any kind of feedback from my friend, good or bad. The piece of writing is only a first draft with all of the mistakes and initial musings that make writing fun.


Ahhhhh, the first day of vacation

It is 6:30 in the morning, and Emily is still asleep. I'm eating carrots nubs and celery after I've already eaten my protein and fiber-rich cereal. This is like the first day of the year for me where I can finally sit and reflect and figure things out.

Like my butt. I have a lot of figuring on that one.

This week is cardio-only week to give the rest of me (and my butt) time off for good (?) behavior. I thought I would dread it, but I'm actually enjoying the time on the treadmill doing intervals. Well, not enjoying it like HAHA Look At Me With A Smile On My Face enjoying it, but more like Look At What I'm Accomplishing enjoying it.

I also have to sit down and again find a list of vegetables that I actually like and enjoy other than lettuce. Obviously, carrots and celery would be a couple more, but how am I going to eat veggies 5-6 times per day of stuff I don't even like. I'd be a binge waiting to happen. And what's the deal with the taste of leftover chicken? I can't stand it! Is there something chemical that happens to the chicken when it cools off and is in the fridge for 24 hours? It's sealed in a bag or a plastic container... any food chemists out there? Is it just me? I LOVE leftover turkey.

That's the ramble for today. I'm hoping to ramble every day this Christmas break.


Of COURSE I know what STFU means...

After doing group work in one of my freshman classes, and everyone was excited to be done and get the snot out of school, the little squirrels were having a difficult time quieting down. They were to clean up and line up their desks back into rows. I was waiting to get their attention and one small boy seems to take it upon himself to "help me." This time he did it by hollering out the initials, "STFU, people!" At first I didn't say anything because I resumed my roll of teacher to get everyone quiet and then told the boy to stay after class.

His head snapped up towards me before his neck, like an overstretched rubber band, unstretched and pulled the rest of his face down towards his desk. He pouted.

When the others had left

--and bless their hearts, but two boys took their time getting out of the room--Boy Wonder had to wait--

Well, when the others had left, I said to Boy Wonder, "Not only do I know what STFU means, but that is just the same as saying the F-word out loud in class, and you will never say that again--"

He interrupted me and said, "The F meant something else."

"If you say it again, it's a PBR (write-up) to the office. Do you understand me?"


I briefly thought about letting him sit awhile longer, but this was also my time and he was draining it. I let him leave.

It was funny that he seemed genuinely surprised that I, an aging teacher who would not ever be on a computer despite there being one on my teacher desk, would know such ill acronyms such as STFU.

I think I was alive when the first emoticon was created.