End-of-Semester Ninja

Ninja-Level: can perform complex tasks in conditions of high uncertainty, stress, and conflict.

If we consider the above definition (which is 100% accurate since I found it on the Internet), I've officially leveled up. I'm a ninja, dear readers. In the midst of high uncertainty, stress, and conflict, I'm still performing complex tasks.

Am I scaling walls? Launching metal stars with great accuracy by swiftly flicking my wrist? Lunging athletically while wielding an imposing sword? No, on all accounts. But, if you saw me with a rubric right now, you'd definitely think, "Dang. She's a ninja." (That is, if you could see me at all. Ninjas reside in the shadows, invisible.)

So far this week, I've listened to approximately 70 final student presentations. I've graded slightly over half of them. They're my air and sustenance right now: I breathe and eat final speeches. These are the walls I'm scaling.

It's all I do: I listen, I take notes, I think, I grade. I sift rubric criteria with swift flicks of my wrist, lunging in an imposing manner with my audio podcast feedback that's personalized to each and every student. Ninja-level, I tell you.

I also keep sharp in other ways, asking myself tough questions like, "Wait, why did I walk into this room?" and "What was I supposed to be doing right now?" Apparently, if I'm a ninja in one aspect of life (work), I'm a goldfish in all other areas.

In the moments when I'm not grading, I daydream about everything I want to do when I have a break from grading. So far on my list:

• Organize my entire closet by holding each piece of clothing to my heart and asking, "Does this spark joy?" while deliberating all the fashion choices I've ever made.
  
  
• Read books. What books, you ask? All of the books. ALL of them.
  
  
• Paint my dining room. Or maybe change the pictures on the walls. Or perhaps swap out the table cloth. I'm not sure. Something is off in that room. I can't put my finger on it,.
  
  
• Become a professional garage-saler, like those guys on American Pickers. Imagine me driving a van off into the distance like a modern-day treasure hunter. 

I'm so close. I can almost taste it.

Once I submit my final grades this upcoming weekend, I'll have two full weeks before classes start again. And during those two weeks, trust me, not only will I remember why I'm walking into rooms, but I also plan on being a ninja-level master at closet organization, book reading, dining room decorating, and garage saling.

You won't see it of course, because I'll be invisible. That's just the ninja way. 

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The Happiest Squirrel on Campus

I found the happiest squirrel on campus yesterday. You might wonder how I can make such a bold, definitive claim, and I'd understand your skepticism. There are a lot of squirrels on campus, after all. They're like pigeons in New York City. They're always there. They're part of the landscape and experience.

You're probably also wondering how I know whether a squirrel is happy. That's also a fair question. I mean, squirrels are so squirrely, so even if they are happy, they're still so weirdly fidgety and flighty.

Despite these valid questions, I stand firmly on my claim: I found the happiest squirrel on campus yesterday.

This little guy had found a piece of pizza. He was being actively pursued by another squirrel, who I'd rank in my entirely scientific and not-at-all-arbitrary ranking system as either the second happiest or least happiest squirrel on campus. ("Second happiest" if he caught up with the first squirrel and snagged some pizza. "Least happiest" if he came this close, but fell short of the prize.)

Do I know how this squirrel got a piece of pizza? No. Am I curious how this squirrel got a piece of pizza? Absolutely. I'd really like to know the full backstory.

For now, let me tell you what I know for certain: 

This is the happiest squirrel on campus.

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Just Add Free Time

Anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment.  — Robert Benchley

I'm teaching fewer classes this semester than I taught last semester. In fact, due to a unique scheduling situation, I'm currently teaching fewer classes than I've ever taught during any semester in my seventeen years of college teaching.

In short: I have more free time than I've had in nearly two decades. It. Is. Amazing.

Of course, work always finds a way to take the available time you have to complete it. It's fluid. It reminds me of the "cats are liquid" theory where any cat can conform its body to fit any vessel.

That's how work works. Give it an hour, it'll take a hour. Give it a day, it'll take a day.

For example, when I left campus yesterday, I had four hours of grading to complete. Four hours later, I still had four hours of grading to complete, except that I now had more knowledge about pre-diabetes since I had Googled the condition after reflecting on how much sugar I consume, and I had spent twenty minutes wandering Rural King to admire their baby chicks and eat their free popcorn, and I realized that the last time I had completed an entry in the wedding anniversary book my mother-in-law gave me as bridal shower present was when we celebrated 13 years of marriage. That was in 2014.

Just in case you were curious, my anniversary is in August -- and to point out the obvious, it's February, so nothing significant triggered me to look at book commemorating my wedding anniversaries. I just happened to be sitting cross-legged on my office floor in front of my bookshelves, surrounded by various piles (read! re-read! who-are-you-kidding-you're-never-going-to-read-this), and I stumbled upon the anniversary book, right next to my wedding scrapbook and our old high school yearbooks. (Fun fact: in addition to soccer and track, yesterday I also rediscovered that I had been in student government as the treasurer of my junior class.)

Of course, even though I can't remember exactly what I did last week, much less last year, it became top priority for me to remedy those blank pages and document our last seven years of marriage.

And I told you all of that so I could now tell you this:

Today I completed four hours of grading.

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How To NOT Get Rid of an Air Hockey Table

Friends, this is a recent post, copied and pasted here verbatim, that I shared on my local Buy Nothing Facebook group. It might be the favorite advertisement I've ever written.

We are gifting a large working air hockey table. But before anyone gets excited and thinks, "Oooh, this will add hours of enjoyment for our family, children, guests, and/or dexterous and competitive pets," you need to know a few things.

Namely, when my husband disassembled the table to extract it from our basement, he realized that it weighs three tons, give or take. Neither he nor I have any recollection how we originally got it into our basement. Did we rent a crane? Did we somehow build the house around the air hockey table? Were we actually body builders ten years ago and just forgot this aspect of our identities? We do not know.

Also, given its ample tonnage, we invited (okay, extorted) another person to help us lift the disassembled pieces out of our basement. We now owe this individual a major favor in return. To everyone's credit, there was not one curse word uttered as we finagled it across the basement, around a corner, up a staircase, down a hallway, out a screen door being held open lackadaisically by our eleven-year-old who kept saying, "This looks hard," and into our garage. To our discredit, we needed to set the table down at various points while climbing the steps, which prompted impressive snapping sounds as various pieces came off.

This being said, to our knowledge, all pieces are still accounted for and can be reattached. Our eleven-year-old even sagely noted, "There's nothing that duct tape can't fix" as she looked over all the components strewn across the floor. Clearly, she's wise for her young years.

You will simply need patience, mechanical aptitude akin to assembling IKEA furniture, a large vehicle to transport the pieces, and a strong person who you can invite (coerce?) into helping you carry it into your house. Also, a sense of adventure. And, of course, duct tape. Obviously.

These pictures of the table are all BEFORE disassembly and transport. I am consciously choosing not to post the after pictures of the pieces in my garage to ward off collective discouragement.

Is this gift offering a blessing? Is it a burden? I'm not sure. The jury is still out. Regardless, I thought I'd post it here before we earn the everlasting disdain of the garbage crew during Bulk Trash week this fall.

 

 

Addendum: the post has garnered a fair amount of comments. Perhaps unsurprisingly, however, we haven't yet found a person to take it from us. If you're looking for an air hockey table (and a healthy challenge), just reach out.

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Maybe Planting Six Zucchini Plants Wasn't Such a Good Idea

You know when you plant six zucchini plants, thinking that not all of them will survive, but all do survive? And then you leave town for five days and those six zucchini plants explode and produce zucchini that are the size of baseball bats, or moderately-sized clubs, or perhaps large toy submarines? And then you make a dozen zucchini breads and eat zucchini during every meal? And then you sneak spare zucchini onto your neighbors' porches, which you convince yourself is a kind gesture even though it feels like something suspicious you'd do under the dark cloak of night while egging their house or toilet-papering their trees? And you also realize that seven, maybe eight, more zucchini will be ready to pick tomorrow, and there is NO WAY your family will consume that much zucchini without a mutiny.

 

Yeah, me too.

 

 

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Easy and Delicious Pretzel, M&M, and Hershey Kiss Melts

If you're an "I like something salty, and then I like something sweet, and then I like something salty, and then I like something sweet" snacker, then this is a treat for you! As a bonus, it's wildly simply and you can make a pattern with your M&M colors, giving yourself the illusion of order in your life. Win win!

1) Heat oven to 200. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.

2) Place square (snaps) pretzels in rows.

3) Put a Hershey Kiss on the center of each pretzel.

4) Bake at 200 degrees for 5 minutes. Kisses will be soft and shiny-looking, not melted.

5) Set an M&M on each warm Hershey's Kiss, gently pressing the M&M until the Kiss flattens.

6) Let cool and enjoy. Or eat them warm and enjoy. Or hide them from your family, eat them while sitting in your closet, and enjoy. (There's really no wrong way to do this step.)

Carry on!

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Christmas Traditions: The Crazy House

In every community, I imagine there's at least one house that stands out for Christmas. There's one not far from where we live. For years we've made it a family tradition to pile into the van, turn on Christmas music, and then slowly drive past this spectacle to fully absorb its mega-watt glory.

We've come to fondly call it the Crazy House. At some point during the weeks leading up to Christmas, either Joel or I will ask, "Want to drive the girls by the Crazy House tonight?" (The answer to this question is always yes. It's become an ingrained Christmas tradition, just like eating cookies, or watching Elf, or having the kids wake up at an ungodly early hour on Christmas morning.)

But this year I noticed something while driving home one evening. The Crazy House has new competition.

Why, hello, Larger-than-a-House Inflatable Santa. Driving past you might became part of our family Christmas tradition, too.

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Jumping in Leaves? Remember This.

Oh, fall. You're such a wonderful, cozy season. What's more festive than raking a substantial pile of leaves, breathing in their earthy scent, and then, upon the urging of your kids, jumping in with childlike abandon?

But I'll warn you, if you're about to take the plunge, remember this tip:

The landing is hard.

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Because I'm Kinda Sorta Like Michael Phelps

You know that iconic photo of Michael Phelps wearing the 28 medals that he won across a span of 16 years in 4 separate Olympic Games? Well, not to compare -- because I'd hate to take away from his accomplishments -- but I did just finish my 7th half marathon in exceptionally average time.

Michael, we should share stories sometime. (You're the surf, I'm the turf. Together we'll be dynamic.) You come wearing your medals, and I'll come wearing mine. No need for you to feel intimidated by my accolades, or my crooked selfie-taking skills, for that matter.

It'll just be straight talk, one highly-decorated athlete to another.

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The Post-Talk Spiral

This week I had the opportunity to share the message at my church's Wednesday night service. While this certainly doesn't occur every single time I speak at a ministry event or give a professional presentation, I occasionally slip into a post-talk spiral within minutes of setting down the microphone.

It's a charming thought process that goes something like this:

That went pretty well.  It went decent, at least.  I mean, it was passable.  I forgot to say several things that I planned to say, though.  It was okay.  It was average.  Actually, I messed up several times.  It's possible that my second point wasn't clear at all.  The final point was a bit rushed. Wait, no, the final point was entirely abrupt.  Come to think of it, I'm convinced that nothing was coherent.  Not one sentence had merit.  I might not even have been speaking English.  It's highly probable that I insulted everyone's mothers and accidentally blasphemed.

Then some time passes, and I'm like: Actually, come to think of it, that went pretty well.

Decent, at least.

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My Reaction to Juicy Pear Jelly Beans. Every. Single. Time.

My thought process every time I eat Jelly Belly Juicy Pear jelly beans:

"These are amazing! Amazing! They taste exactly like I'm eating a juicy pear. Uncanny!"

Three second pass. Another realization dawns.

"I could have just eaten a pear, couldn't I?"

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Getting in the Best Shape of My Entire Life (an honest thought process)

Sometimes I think about getting in the best shape of my entire life.  Like, the BEST shape of my ENTIRE life, even though this makes no sense given the reality of my actual life as forty year old with three kids, a full-time job, and a frozen shoulder.

Nevertheless, I think about it.  I mean, I could still break my high school 400-meter record, right?  Maybe I could compete in a Tough Mudder, tackle a Spartan race, or I don't know, become the next American Ninja Warrior.  During these fitness daydreams, I might even hum the Olympic theme song under my breath and speculate about my body-fat-to-muscle ratio.

Then, without fail, another thought surfaces almost immediately, a thought that goes something like this:

I'd really like some ice cream.

And that's all I have to say about this.

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Be Happy that I Didn't Pursue a Career in Medicine

Now that I've popped a few Airborne today to ward off a mid-semester head cold, I should tell you why I would make a terrible nurse or doctor.

It's not just because of the blood, although I do prefer when people keep blood inside their bodies, rather than outside.  It's more about the necessary compassion.  Apparently I'm not good at offering compassionate responses when people physically suffer, like when two of my three children insisted that their throats hurt earlier this fall while getting ready for school.

Children (hoarsely whispering) "My throat hurts."

Me (looking at them):

Nothing.  I had nothing immediately compassionate to say.  No helpful, "Oh, you poor sweeties, let me make you cups of hot tea with honey," and no empathetic, "Sore throats are the worst!"  This doesn't mean that my mind was sluggish, though.  I already had entered overdrive with sundry thoughts about sore throats:

It is TOO EARLY in the school year for this to be happening.  What has it been?  Two weeks?  Immune systems can be compromised in just two weeks?  Wasn't it 90+ degrees outside just days ago?  What tomfoolery is this to come down with a cold now?

Have I recently shared any food with either of these children that will make their sore throats of today my sore throat of tomorrow?
 
What do you even do to treat a sore throat anyway, besides for riding it out?  Cough drops?  Do we have any cough drops?

They're not going to want go to school today, are they?

And since these thoughts take two or three seconds to fully process, my children must have assumed that I didn't hear their complaints the first time.

Them (hoarse whispers now coupled with pained expressions):  "It hurts. Real bad."

Then they pointed to their necks in case I didn't recall where their throats were located, or perhaps for emphasis.

Me (still looking at them, still calculating who I've most likely shared germs with, still deeply wanting them all to go to school for the day, still trying to muster up the most fitting parental response):  "Um, do you think you have a temperature?"

("Do you think you have a temperature?" is my automatic answer to every health complaint, except for open wounds, which prompt my second default reply: "Do you think you need a band-aid?")

It reminds me of a moment, many years ago, when my friend who studied pre-med at a southern university visited me at my northern university.  She browsed my bookshelves of literature textbooks and rhetoric tomes, then pulled a thick volume of Shakespeare off the shelf.  "I can't believe that you study this."  There wasn't a hint of irony in her tone, just observation, daresay even appreciation for a good liberal arts education.

I sat cross-legged on my dorm floor's five by seven area rug, flabbergasted and like, "But you study anatomy and physiology and organic chemistry!  You're figuring out all that foot-bone's-connected-to-leg-bone stuff, which is a tad more concrete than a metaphysical question about being or not being."

Alas, she probably has better responses for her children when they have sore throats, but maybe, just maybe, she also looks at her own kids when they approach her with an ailment and sometimes says, "Do you have a temperature?  No, well, just go grab a band-aid, okay?"


Image compliments of Pixabay.

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There's No Time Like the Semi-Distant Future

"There's no time like the present."
 - first recorded appearance of adage in 1562

There are certain life task that I act upon quickly.  For example, if I'm on a road trip and stop to get gas, I use the restroom even if I don't really have to because I never know when I'll come across another bathroom.  On a more daily basis, it's ingrained in my core to make my bed. There's no waffling, no debating, and no procrastinating; I just make the bed every morning, without fail. 

Even more pointedly, if I see ice cream, I eat ice cream.  (How can you not apply the "there's-no-time like-the-present" adage when you're dealing with a food that literally will melt if it's not consumed in a timely fashion?)

But there's one type of task that always trips me up, one chore that always makes me want to twist the adage (which, when you're especially unmotivated, backfires as relentlessly perky in its proactive urging) and edit it to say, "There's no time like the semi-distant future."

And that task is sewing.  Sewing anything.  If there's a seam to mend, a hole to stitch, a pant leg to hem, or a monkey's arm to attach, I will be slow to do it.  (Ditto for adhering Girl Scout patches onto vests, which technically need to be ironed, not sewn, but it's close enough.)  I am a hesitant sewer.

But not today.  Because today I sewed not one, but two, items of clothing that needed to be mended.

And I feel like a rock star.

Photo by pina messina on Unsplash

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The End. The Beginning. The Walmart Parking Lot.

"This is really happening to us, isn't it?"  - My husband to me, on the looming start of the semester.

Dear Readers, I have something to tell you: this day in history marks both the beginning and the end.  This is my final weekend of summer.  The fall semester starts on Monday, and I return to teaching.  I know this is true for a multitude of reasons: the calendar telling me that it's so, the three consecutive days of orientation events I attended on campus last week, the uptick of emails in my inbox, and the distinct smell of the morning air that only happens when you reach the latter half of August.

It's really happening.  We're doing this thing.

But mostly, I know the semester is starting because of the Walmart parking lot.

There are several unspoken guidelines about living in a university town, first and foremost being that you never, ever plan a trip to Walmart during move-in weekend when 40,000+ students and their parents descend upon the store to buy Sterilite plastic drawers, bed risers, Command hooks, flimsy laundry baskets, wall-calendar-bulletin-board combos, extra long twin sheet sets and comforters, cheap desk lamps, and sundry other items that they'll throw into a dumpster nine months from now when they move out.

We university townies hold this truth to be self-evident: when it's the beginning and the end, when the humid August air begins to smell a certain way, and the calendar tells you it's so, and the moon is in the seventh hour and Jupiter aligns with Mars and move-in weekend: Just don't do it.

Just avoid Walmart.

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Get Rid of All The Things!

In preparation for the garage sale our family and neighbors will host this weekend, I've been scouring our house with an eye to throw everything away. I mean this. Nothing is safe.

Last week, for example, I launched an epic cleaning endeavor that targeted the cabinet where roughly eleven thousand mechanical pencils, wooden pencils, colored pencils, broad-tipped markers, fine-tipped markers, scented markers, Crayola crayons, Twistable crayons, Twistable pencils, pens, Sharpies, and other miscellaneous and/or specialty writing utensils have accumulated, and apparently multiplied, in dozens of plastic pencil bins.

Because this is how I spend my down time.

I poured myself a tropical cherry sparkling water, turned out some music, and organized until my heart was content.  Dried-out markers, wrapper-less crayons nubs, and pencils without erasers were tossed.  Dull pencils were sharpened.  Like items were sorted with like items.  Extras were packaged in neat bunches and donated to a new teacher who's starting her first classroom.

 Bit by bit, my exterior world came into more order, and my heart soared a little.

Then I realized that this was just one cabinet, and there we sundry other things -- toys! games! more craft supplies! books! clothes! kitchen things! -- that needed to be sorted, tamed, and reduced.

For the love.  How does this happen?  How does this amount of stuff enter a household?  I prefer to believe that I don't own too many possessions, like it's a mark of sobriety and contentment and not being snared by the materialistic trappings of the world, but fifteen plastic pencil boxes of writing utensils will disabuse you of the illusion that you don't own much.

I'd blame my kids, given that they're chief perpetrators with their craft creations, books, gadgets, school worksheets, and special occasions detritus, like those birthday party goodie bags filled with small plastic gizmos that they love and I want to spontaneously combust, but the truth is, kids really can't bring that much into a house without you letting them.  (Or, if they smuggle things in without you knowing, like the time my girls and the neighbor kids hid a pet frog in our garage in a plastic crate.  It died.  They still feel badly about this.)
 
But back to the stuff.

Even thought I'm highly organized, I also contribute to mass accumulation.  You see, I'm kind of a hustler.  We live in a transitory town where people -- students, mostly -- leave things on the side of the road when they're moving out.  (We're talking about furniture, home goods, and entirely viable products that, at least in my mind, don't belong on the side of a road destined for a landfill.)

So, I sometimes pick up these cast-away roadside treasures and bring them home, which, as you can imagine, my husband deeply appreciates. Then -- here come the hustling part -- I sell these items FOR PROFIT.  (My husband appreciates this part more.)

That's where we are now.  We've reached critical mass.  The only thing separating us from a garage where we can actually park is a mere 327 sequential pricing decisions (should I charge 50 cents or one dollar for this candle?), and then, during the sale, some strong currents of mental telepathy to the woman who repeatedly returns to the corner table to hold the decorative lantern. Buy it. Buy it. You know you want to buy it.

Because maybe she'll take it home and treasure it forever.  Or, just maybe, she'll sell it at her own garage sale next year.

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When You're Invited to a Classy Wedding

My husband and I attended a lovely wedding this past weekend.  The ceremony was touching, the exchange of personalized vows was heartfelt, the bride was stunning, and the groom was charming.  The color palate, which featured natural tones and a subtle blush for the bridesmaids' dresses, was refined and elegant.

In fact, the whole event was classy.  Undeniably classy.

The centerpieces, with pale roses and lush greenery, were refined and classy.

The ample menu, which featured four distinct culinary stations for global flair -- Latin, Italian, Southern, and Mediterranean -- was classy.

The dessert table, with its delicately piped icing on chocolate hazelnut, red velvet, and vanilla cupcakes, was classy.

Even the location itself, with its rustic farmhouse features, interesting architectural elements, beautiful grounds, and charming character, was classy.

And then you insert us into this classy environment and add music.

Go ahead and admit it.  Undeniable class.  We fit right in.

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Sometimes I Have These Random Thoughts and Experiences

Sometimes when I try to remember the spelling of a certain word, I look at it for so long that I'm convinced it's no longer a word.

Sometimes when I arrive at a destination, I don't remember certain parts of the trip, but I hope that I still obeyed traffic laws while getting there.

Sometimes when I eat a sandwich, the bread gets stuck to the roof of my mouth and I momentarily worry that it'll never get unstuck.

Sometimes when I take a shower, it all seems so familiar that I can't recall if I've washed and conditioned my hair, or just thought about washing and conditioning my hair.

Sometimes I suspect the one reason that most of us know the meaning of the word belated is because we live in a society where people periodically forget birthdays.

Sometimes when making very simple side dishes, like macaroni and cheese, I have to take the box out of the trash multiple times so I can re-read the directions.

Sometimes when I'm reading a book at night, I tell my husband that I'll come upstairs in just a minute, and he always wishes me good night because he knows better.

Sometimes when I experience a sudden sharp headache, I wonder if it's about to be a brain aneurysm, but so far, so good.

Sometimes when I see how many crumbs are in the drawer where we keep our silverware, I wonder if a member of my family actively shakes the toaster over it.

Sometimes I not only forget what day it is, but also what month, and for that weightless moment, I feel entirely unhinged, like I'm no longer tethered to time, responsibility, or real calendars.  Then, the sensation passes just as quickly as it arrived, and I'm like, "Oh, it's May. And Thursday."

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A Parent's Guide to Volume

 
A Parent's Guide to Volume

1. Creepy silence
2. Peaceful silence, like a cotton ball landing on felt 
3. Light background chatter 
4. Normal conversation 
5. Normal conversation with pleasant ambient background noise
6. Attempted conversation with semi-distracting background noise 
7. Attempted conversation with raucous background noise 
8. Two simultaneous attempted, yet unsuccessful, conversations, plus raucous background noise 
9. Multiple unsuccessful and fragmented conversations, plus familiar background noise, plus disconcerting unknown thudding or screeching 
10. Keep all components of #9, but add an air horn, a Kidz Bop concert, an intermittent fire alarm, continual whining, and a child who cannot spell anything requesting you to "help" as she painstakingly writes a lengthy story while sitting in an adjacent room.  Bonus points if you're taking a work phone call.

Disclaimer:  Items 2, 3, 4, and 5 are purely fictional categories for parents.



Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

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Yet Another Baking Success

So, my daughters found these adorable Wide-Eyed Turkey Cupcakes and decided that we must try them for Thanksgiving this year.

So we did.  And, as usual, we nailed it.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

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