Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Fearless

Today, you were student of the month. Again. For the last time. Even though it was a little bit silly -- Ms. Fletcher nominated all the advanced art seniors, no matter what kind of people they've turned out to be -- but, she saved her praise of you for last. 

She said you were a badass. 

She said you were fearless. 

She said that -- no matter the challenge -- you take it on and you rise to it. 

I know that you don't see that in yourself. All the time, you compare you to me, you say that you can't power through, that you can't work so hard all of the time, that you can't be as strong as I am. But I don't know that I'm strong, kiddo. I'm just really, really stubborn. And I have a chip on my shoulder the size of a railroad tie. That doesn't mean that I'm fearless. That just means that...in many cases...I take on battles that I'm never going to win. Maybe it's fearlessness, but maybe it's also tilting at windmills. 

But you, my daughter. You are fearless. And you are a badass.

That doesn't mean that you aren't afraid, because I see you and you are often terrified. 

That doesn't mean that you don't feel pain, because I see you and you are in pain all of the time. 

But I also see you -- again and again and again -- you fall down, you get shit on, you pick yourself back up, you doubt yourself, you question everything -- and then you square your shoulders and you get back in the fight. 

You don't see the strength that I see. 

You don't see the talent that I see. 

You don't see the power that I see. 

You don't see the forever friend that I see.

 You, my daughter, are a ball of anxiety. 

But I see you. I see you as you take a minute and then pull it together, take a deep breath, and get back out there.

It doesn't matter what the future holds because you are a powerhouse. You have a fountain of strength within you. A geyser. You will tackle whatever comes your way in your own way.

You are my soul.

My daughter. 

And I am so incredibly proud of you.

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Under Pressure

 I haven't written in ages. 9 months, to be exact. Maybe 10. Math is hard.

I haven't had the time -- made the time -- to write. And frankly, I haven't had the mental capacity to write. 

There are so many things to write about. Helena's senior year and all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

Sam's freshman year. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

My job. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

I still love my job, although I can't pay the bills. I'm still so incredibly relieved and fulfilled that I braved the jump to Okemos, but I'm still so incredibly broke because of that decision.

I still freelance when I can find the time. I still judge for Scholastic and the New York Times almost monthly. And now, I work concessions on the weekends at KWings stadium so that I have enough cash for Helena to skate her final year in derby. I don't remember the last day I didn't work.

I haven't written in ages because there just. isn't. time.

But today I had a wake-up call. And I feel like I have to write this down. Publicly. Transparently.

Today, I found someone to cover my 5th hour class so I could donate blood at the blood drive before the fire drill that was scheduled 6th hour. I speed-walked down to the rubber gym (IDK, it's a thing at Okemos. Just go with it...) and I signed in and a student told me: "It's your gallon day! That's amazing!" and I was ready to go -- just stick that needle in me, I'm a fast bleeder, we can get this done before the fire drill -- and -- my blood pressure was too high.

Literally, my blood pressure was above the Red Cross' limit.

I couldn't donate blood. My blood pressure was too high.

I've known, for a year now, that my blood pressure was an issue. I've tried to sleep more, drink less alcohol, drink more water, move more, breathe more. But my blood pressure hasn't budged. 

There are so many reasons why. Menopause, COVID, the job change, the job itself, my weight, alcohol, the kids, the bills. So many reasons why my blood pressure is out of control.

And I know what lifestyle changes need to occur for me to get it under control.

But I haven't managed to make those changes happen. An extra 30 minutes of sleep a night and an extra bottle of water a day and an extra daily walk doesn't fix the problem.

My entire lifestyle is the problem, and that isn't going to change any time soon.

So, I made a doctor's appointment next week. I'm apprehensive. My longtime doctor left the practice and I'm stuck with someone new that I've never met. She will tell me I'm fat and that I drink too much and that I don't sleep enough and I know all of these things already, but I hope that she will prescribe me medication so that I can get this blood pressure under control. Because clearly I can't do it out of sheer will.

But I'd really like to live for a very long time.

Because I'd really like to be able to donate blood and hit that gallon mark.

Because I really want to be here to see my kids into their futures and cheer them on.

 And frankly, I'm way too busy to have a heart attack and die.


Sunday, May 14, 2023

Musings on Mother's Day

 I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I was never sure I wanted to be a mom. I was worried that I would be a cold mom. That I would resent all that I had given up to be a mom. That I'd be fundamentally bad at it. That I would regret it. I am not a mother-woman.

It wasn't until an unplanned pregnancy and a miscarriage that I realized that maybe  just maybe  it was something that I could maybe  just maybe  do.

I've never regretted the ultimate decision to have kids. I've also never regretted that I didn't manage to have a 3rd child, and I've never regretted my divorce. Sometimes the universe knows what to do.

The thing is  kids do, ultimately, ruin your life. But they ruin the life you had, the life before you had this love, this mess, this chaos, these hugs, these conflicts, these moments. 

I don't regret it.

I regret how messy my house is, how fundamentally dirty it is.

I regret what has happened to my body, the body that gave birth twice and never really recovered. Never found the hours in the day it took (before kids) to make this body "fit."

I resent  just a little bit  the cost. The fundamental debt, the working as many hours and as many jobs as I can to give these kids the experiences that I never had, that I never even knew existed, and still always existing in debt, not able to bring in quite enough to give them the experiences and life that I wish I could give them.

But I don't resent them. I don't regret them. I already miss them, as they are already pulling away, becoming their own selves, finding their own passions, hugging me in drive-by moments.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I grew up with a mom who did her very best, but who was also running her husband's business, and trying to raise two toddlers on the side. I was the oldest-only child, only half-related to anyone, the one who never really fit in to either family. Nearly a decade older than any of my half-siblings, I was the odd duck. The ugly swan. The black sheep. The label. But my mom always let me know that she believed in me. That I was her first, and that we  she and I  had a history that was ours, alone, that no one could take away.

An I was incredibly lucky  I had a second mom as well. I had two women in my life who loved me unconditionally, no matter how awkward or odd I was. I saw two ways of living in the world, and I watched them. I learned. I loved. I knew I was loved.

As I write this, my son just did a drive-by hugging. "I love you mom. The weekend was epic. Thank you for taking me to Kentucky and for being an epic mom. I'll always be your snuggle bear." 

And then he grabbed his phone and his blanky, and he leaned into me and then his 6' tall self trudged up the stairs and went to bed (I hope). A fully formed human, a person I formed. A human whose dirty sock is in the middle of the living room as I write this. A human whose teacher I just emailed, a human who is eating me out of house and home, a human who has managed to lose all of our forks under his bed. 

A human who calls me mom.

My daughter has a field trip to Stratford on Tuesday. She has an outfit crisis. We solved it. I can take her to Kohl's tomorrow. She will be able to wear her vision. I can pick up another freelance piece. She's worth every word. 

And my daughter from another mother? She has moved on to the rest of her life. She has found her own path and forged her own future.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

It's Mother's Day, a day with an apostrophe I don't understand, a day that's never landed on "my weekend." But today I got hugs  real hugs  from both of my kids. 

Today, as I write this, both kids are asleep (?) in their rooms. In just a few years, both kids won't be here anymore. 

But these moments, these memories they will live on. They will live on in me, and they will live on in my kids. Whatever my moms taught me, I have done everything in my power to gift to my kids. And they, in turn, will pay it forward to their future generations, whatever those will look like.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

But I have no regrets.

Sunday, January 15, 2023

A Letter to My Students Who Plagiarized. Again.

Dear Students-

Remember at the beginning of the semester, when I talked about plagiarism? Remember when I said that a number of you would probably plagiarize this semester because it happens every semester in this senior-level elective? Remember when you laughed when I said that the most commonly plagiarized assignments in this class every semester are résumés and cover letters? Remember when you commented that it was stupid to plagiarize a résumé and a cover letter and I agreed?

Ope, you did it again.

This semester, three of you submitted cover letters with paragraphs lifted from the internet. Three of you also submitted essays clearly written by ChatGPT, an AI writer developed by OpenAI. ChatGPT essays are pretty obvious -- they are too perfect, too generic, too formulaic. To a student, they probably sound amazing, like "college-level writing," whatever that is. But to a human being who's been reading high school-level writing for almost 30 years, ChatGPT essays sound like they are written by a robot. Plus, if your essay only has 3 keystrokes recorded in Google docs, then you probably didn't actually write it. "Control C Control V" doesn't count as writing.

But why do you do this every year? Why do you cheat when it's always so obvious? Why do you cheat when the only person you are hurting is you? Why would someone cheat on a résumé or on a cover letter, when these documents are specifically about you and your skills and work ethics? (Last year, a student cheated on their scholarship application essay. I can't make this up.) If you aren't going to learn these writing skills in high school, when do you think you are actually going to learn the skills? How will you excel if you never do the hard work?

Students -- listen to me. You are not hurting me when you try to game the system. The only person you are hurting is you. 

We worked on these assignments for days, sometimes weeks. You chose not to work on them. You put other classes ahead of mine, other conversations ahead of ours. You decided to play games on your phone instead of working to synthesize sources into a cohesive essay. You procrastinated, you backed yourself into a corner, you panicked, and then you plagiarized. It happens every year.

But you know what you didn't do?

You didn't learn how to write.

And you didn't learn to stop procrastinating.

You didn't learn to stop making excuses.

You didn't learn to be honest with yourself.

You didn't learn to own your own choices.

But you learned how to use ChatGPT. I guess that's something.

Listen, ChatGPT is a great tool. But like any tool, you can use it to do good in this world, or you can use it to cheat yourself and others out of something true and honest.

Good writing takes time. It takes passion. It takes thought and revision and reflection. Good writing is not generated by copy and paste, and it's not generated by ChatGPT.

What you submitted was not good writing. Instead, you submitted proof of your own lack of character. When times got tough, you took the shortcut.

And I want to be clear: several of you plagiarized. But most of you did not. Props to the majority who put in the effort and did the right thing day after day.

Look. I'm writing this because I care. I care about teaching you skills that will help you in college and in your career and in your life. I'm writing this because I care about you and your future. 

I hope that -- going forward -- you start to care about that, too.

Thursday, December 8, 2022

I walked out of my favorite bar today.

Not because of the food or the beer or the service, but because of the white guys down the rail. I couldn't unhear them and I couldn't stay silent, so instead -- I left. The bartender poured my full beer into a to-go cup and duct-taped the lid on. I wasn't leaving a full Edmund Fitzgerald behind.

"A Marine! They left a Marine -- who served our country -- and got a basketball player out instead!" It devolved from there. Her race, her hair, her sexual orientation, some pundit, Biden, some votes. 

I tried to bite my tongue. But "he was dishonorably discharged, you know. And committed quite a few crimes. Maybe not the Marine you are envisioning" just slipped out.

"Oh really." I was clearly dismissed. And, they jumped back to their conversation that spiraled into the Black lesbian vote and optics. "She hates America," they said.

I asked for the check, a to-go cup, and some duct-tape.

On Facebook, in response to the same claim about her alleged hatred of America, I asked: "If she hated America, why would she expend the energy and deal with the fallout of peacefully protesting during the National Anthem? If she hated America, why would she even try?"

"Oh, you're her best friend or something?" the lady on Facebook retorts. She seems nice.

No. I'm not her friend. I've never met Brittney Griner in my life, nor will I. I literally just Googled how to spell "Brittney" so I got it right. 

But my laywoman's observations tell me that somebody doesn't put themselves out there, somebody doesn't take a stand, somebody doesn't put their neck on the line if they don't think it's worth it. If they don't think it's worth saving. 

"I honestly feel we should not play the National Anthem during our season," said Griner, one of the top players in the WNBA and second in 2019 most valuable player voting. "I think we should take that much of a stand. 

"I don't mean that in any disrespect to our country. My dad was in Vietnam and a law officer for 30 years. I wanted to be a cop before basketball. I do have pride for my country."

Doesn't really sound like hatred to me, yanno?

And, look, I don't know a damn thing about Paul Whelan, other than what I've found by Googling. But I know there's a whole lot more to his story than the narrative that he sacrificed himself to serve our country as a Marine. A quick Google search tells me that his history is way more complicated than that simplistic narrative and involves many more countries than ours. TL;DR: he was court martialed and convicted and dishonorably discharged from the Marines. Google it. There's some shady shit going on there.

So.

Should a notorious, nefarious arms dealer be traded for a basketball player? I'm not an international negotiator and neither are you. But I do know that this guy had already served 12+ years of his sentence, and lots of countries have a huge interest in him, not just Russia. And Paul Whelan has a shady enough past to be worth a whole lot more to Russia than what we could give. Paul Whelan literally wasn't on the bargaining table.

Sure, Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. Maybe you don't think she deserves to be rescued. But if that's the case, say it out loud. Say it. "I don't believe that a Black lesbian woman's life is worth international negotiations that are way above my understanding." Say it out loud. But don't hide behind the rhetoric of "he's a marine and she hates America." Do your homework. And think critically, just a little bit.

Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she was going to serve time for almost a decade for carrying a legal substance -- that she has a prescription for -- in her suitcase as she travelled to her second job. Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she's also a woman. And she's Black. And she's a lesbian. And she doesn't make enough money at her first job, so she has to go to Russia during the off season and play there for her second job.

If anyone should have a bone to pick with America, it would probably be Brittney Griner.

But her daring our country to do better and be better doesn't mean that she hates it.

It just means that she wants it to step up.

I dare you to do better and be better, bar guys and Facebook woman. 

Step up. Do more. Be more. But, my god, please do some research, first.

If I was friends with Brittney Griner (and I'm not, but I totally would be, call me girl), my guess is that if there's anything she hates about America -- anything at all -- it would probably be the hatred and the ignorance that you so easily spew.

Photo by Michael Carruth on Unsplash





Tuesday, November 1, 2022

As Old as the Egg McMuffin

 "Hey, mom. Know how old you are? You're as old as the Egg McMuffin!"

Only minutes before, he'd been stunned to learn that I'm turning 50. "Fifty??!! But...that's half a century! I thought you were, like, 47!!" 

I remember when 50 sounded old. It still does. I see my aging idols on stage, and they still have it going on. But they are 50. They are old. Julie just died at 49. 50 has always been that threshold. Gateway to the elderly. There's no turning back now. I'm halfway to 100.

But I don't feel old.

Sure, sometimes my left knee does something wonky and I wonder if it remembers which way to bend. Sure, there was that week last spring when my arches seemingly forgot to arch and I immediately bought out all of the Dr. Scholl's section at Meijer. Sure, I dropped out of the Detroit 1/2 marathon this year because I was worried I wouldn't make the time cut.

But I don't feel particularly old. 

I got ID'd yesterday, buying bourbon. I ran a couple of miles over the weekend. I still understand the words coming out of my students' mouths. No cap. I kinda really want Taylor Swift tickets.  And every day, I feel my quads as I climb the stairs. I feel my vertebrae as I stretch. I feel the potential. 

I don't feel old.

Back in January, a million years ago and just yesterday, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish this year, the year I turned 50. This was my to-do list. (Spoiler...I didn't do it all. Or even most of it...)

  1. Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…

I mean...sometimes? Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. I tried to get my steps in. I trained for the 1/2 marathon, and got up to 10 miles before life and COVID got in the way. But did I move intentionally every day? Probably not.


  1. Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the hanger thing. Maybe I’ll Marie Kondo the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.

Girl. I totally did this. I got rid of a LOT of stuff. 3 boxes sent to ThredUp. 2 more dropped of to charity. I still have more to sort through, but I definitely got rid of some stuff.


  1. Break the “Shopping High” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)

I worked really hard on this. I did buy some things. I blame my job. They changed their mascot, and that led to some purchases. Also, harem pants came back into fashion. Just sayin...But I was a lot better this year. A lot more frugal. Fewer impulse buys. Fewer hopeful purchases. Fewer Facebook scams. I did buy clothes (mostly hoodies. and harem pants) but I broke the addiction. And, fwiw, I still haven't found a comfortable bra.


  1. Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)

Yeah, no.


  1. Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.

I think I wrote 11.


  1. Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. 

There's a reason that weight loss should never be a New Year's Resolution. I only lost 5 lbs this year. But you know what? I don't feel tired and run-down and dragged out anymore. I'm not where I want to be, but I feel better about where I am. So...even though the scale hasn't really moved, I'm going to call this one a win.


  1. Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.

I averaged 30 minutes more sleep/night. Except, yanno, tonight. 'Cause that's how averages work.


  1. Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. 

I did take that trip with the girls. And I did start the upper half of my sleeve. I haven't paid down debt. But I did save for something(s) special. And it was worth the extra work.


  1. Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. 

See above. Still debty.


  1. Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.

I actually read a couple of books this year. And that was huge. To sit with a book, screens off, and just allow myself the time --guilt free-- to read. I can't wait for the next break to be able to read again. I rebuilt some of that reading stamina, and now I just need to carve out the time.

So, that was my to-do list for 2022. My 50th year (that I know of) on this planet.

I really didn't hit my target(s). But I also feel pretty okay about where I'm at.

And I'm officially as old as the Egg McMuffin, according to my son.

But --spoiler alert-- I always have been.

And the Egg McMuffin has been around for 50 years because it's a damn good sandwich. With or without the Canadian Bacon (I choose without, because, ewww, FLESH), it comes in around 300ish calories of reliable comfort food. It'll fill you up without making you regret your life choices.

And an Egg McMuffin? It's a classic. But also current. It's kind of fucking delicious. A perfect blend of crunchy and savory and salty and protein. It's satisfying. It's not going anywhere.

It has staying power.


And so do I.

Monday, August 22, 2022

Reflections re: my Mojo

 I've been asked several times in the last two weeks: "So, did you do it? Did you get your mojo back?"

If you've kept up with my writing this summer, you know that I've been trying to work on me, and reclaim my love of reading, my love of self, my love of writing, and some semblance of order in my house.

You also know that I lost a couple of weeks of productivity with COVID. And, if you follow me on the Book of Face, you know that I've also spent some time traveling for work and for play. All in all, it's been a super busy summer, full of some amazing moments and a lot of nature (and a lot of coughing). 

Here's a quick update on all of the things.

I didn't read all of the books I wanted to read. But I did read Kal Penn's You Can't Be Serious on a whim and it was amazing. I liked it as much as I liked Trevor Noah's Born a Crime. Other books were hit or miss; some I finished, some I put down after 40 pages, and some are overdue at the library as we speak.

I still have to go through all of my pants and get rid of the ones that will never fit again, get rid of the ones that dig into me and make me feel like a sausage. But everything else in my closet is cleaned out. 5 huge boxes to Thred Up and Volunteers of America. 10 pairs of shoes gone. Everything in my closet (except for the piles of pants) fits and makes me feel good about myself. I'm no longer staring at piles of clothing, mocking me for who I am now.

The rest of the house is as clean as it's going to be. Boxes of old toys, kids' art supplies, and old sports equipment are gone. The broken recliner and art cabinet are gone. The floors are mopped. That nasty space between the sink and the toilet is clean. That unopened jar of pepper jelly from 2005 has been thrown away. All of the mini-boxes of sugar corn pops and golden grahams have gone to the food pantry. The wrinkled apples are now a pie.

I didn't get my fitness level permanently nudged up on my Fitbit. It still says that my fitness is between "poor" and "fair." I had huge hopes of a summer of fitness, working my way back into running, getting my resting heartbeat lowered, and starting to feel fit again. I managed to drop my resting heartbeat about 10 beats per minute when I was camping, or on vacation. But here I am, the day before school starts again, and I'm right back up to where I was in June. But I also know that I AM more fit than I was. I can see and feel strength in my arms and shoulders. I can jog up a flight of stairs without holding on to the railing. And yesterday, I interval/ran 6 miles. 

More importantly, when I look in the mirror, I'm beginning to see my beauty again. I'm not as mad at the scale, and I'm not mad at myself anymore. Sure, I'm a big girl — and I'm a beautiful woman. Both can be true. Both are true.

So, did I get my mojo back?

I mean...kinda? I feel more like me. More like I can be me.

And I'm proud of me. I'm proud of my beautiful — albeit perpetually cluttered — home. I'm proud that I can go out and interval/run for 6 miles. I'm proud that I can go up the stairs without breaking a sweat. I'm proud that I can pick up a book and read a chapter, that I've built some stamina. I'm proud that I wrote about my journey this summer and that you wanted to read it.

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash
And when I look in the mirror, I'm proud of who I see. It's taken me a long time to see her again, looking back at me.

She is a beautiful woman.

She is a work in progress.

She is me.

Wednesday, July 27, 2022

Trying to Get my Mojo Back, Part 3

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me: I have body issues.

As a teen, I absorbed all of the toxic messaging of the 80’s and 90’s, with its hyper-focus on BMI, the “obesity epidemic,” and how many calories were in fats versus carbs and proteins. I remember looking around my high school classes, and realizing that there was only 1 girl heavier than me. And once I got to college, surrounded by college sorority girls, I was told that I was cute, but I was never told that I was beautiful. It was clear to me that college girls were hot. I was not. I was smart, competent, reliable, available. I was not hot.

And then…a career teaching high school has me surrounded by girls at the fetishized age. I am surrounded always by 16 year old girls, before childbirth and life and menopause destroys their abs and draws lines down their legs and wrinkles their decolletage. Surrounded by the “perfect female form” that is not even yet an adult.


In my teens and twenties, I used to define myself by the male (and female) gaze. Only if I could get that slight smile, that look up and down followed by a narrowing of the eyes and a quick jerk up with the chin —an unspoken but clearly communicated “whassup” of approval— only then did I know that I was attractive. But that kind of neediness and reliance on others was harmful —is harmful— not only to me, but also to my relationships. Needing approval from others who will always eventually desire someone else smaller, firmer, younger —it’s toxic. And it’s just fucking wrong. 


My physical attractiveness has fuckall to do with the gazes of others.


Our collective obsession with thin and fit and even curvy* has moralized weight, as if those who are thin and fit (and curvy*) are deserving of their size because they’ve worked hard for it, while the rest of us clearly are gluttonous, lazy, self-indulgent piles of lard.


But thin people aren’t more virtuous because they are thin. They don’t work harder. They don’t eat less. They don’t deserve more admiration because they won the genetic lottery. Thin people are thin because they are predisposed to being thin. They are not morally superior. And they are not more beautiful.


It’s taken me 49 years of never being thin enough —never being fit enough— and a summer of listening to the podcast Maintenance Phase and realizing how much of the toxic messaging I have absorbed in my lifetime…it’s taken me 49 years to say the quiet part out loud: What if this is the size that I am for the rest of my life? What if I am never again a size 12? How do I figure out how to look in the mirror and see a beautiful woman looking back at me?


So that’s part 3 of trying to get my mojo back: trying to remember what it’s like to feel attractive, and to finally know that I am beautiful. But instead of relying on the compliments of others, the number on the scale or the number on the back of my jeans, I want to find other ways to measure. 


Photo by Aleksander Vlad on Unsplash

I want to slowly run again, working intervals into a daily routine, moving because it feels good to move. I want to climb the stairs and feel powerful instead of winded. To feel the muscles in my thighs working, the strength in my calves, the tendons and ligaments working together in strength. 


I want to increase my lung capacity and lower my resting heart rate. I want to stretch and find flexibility instead of judgment in my movement.


But most importantly, instead of finding approval in the gazes of others, I want to find it in my own gaze. I want to look myself up and down, a slight narrowing of my eyes. A Mona Lisa smile smiling back at me. A slight nod of the chin. 


An unspoken energy vibrating in the air. 


“Whassup, girl. You look good.”








*Curvy = bigger, but still without rolls or wrinkles. Like J. Lo or Beyonce.


Friday, July 22, 2022

Trying to Get my Mojo Back, part 2

Hey, there! I'm back! 

If you wondered where I've been, I've been in my front yard taking deep breaths and a lot of naps. Although I would consider my COVID case to be mild, it still kicked my ass for about a week and a 1/2. But, I'm coughing less, I'm less out of breath, and I'm heading outside to mow the lawn here in a few. All this to say: if you are following my "get my mojo back" journey for inspiration on how to do it, getting COVID is the opposite of what you should do. 0/10 would not recommend.

So, what's my Mojo, you ask? It's just me. Finding me again. Feeling okay in my own skin. Relearning how to love the things I used to love. Relearning how to look in the mirror and see beauty. Relearning how to fill my lungs with air and feel accomplished. Trying to learn some self-acceptance.

My journey this summer to try to find myself again has 4 parts to it: Reading, Writing, Moving, and Cleaning. And my goal was to dedicate 30 days (non-contiguous) to to the journey. COVID took me out on day 18, so I've got a long way to go and not a lot of time left. 

And now I'm going to admit to my life-long struggle with cleaning.

I grew up in households where moms maintained the cleaning, and where daily and weekly kid chores were the norm. Weekly, I scoured the bathroom sink. Why? I still am not sure. Like, doesn't the toothpaste just clean it on its own? Regardless, that was one of my chores. Dusting was another. Folding the laundry and doing the dishes were also on my task lists. 

These houses were always spotless, as were the homes of my grandparents.

But here's the thing: these houses also had a cleaning lady who came in a couple of times a month for $25/hour and did the big stuff.

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

I have never had a cleaning lady. And my own kids don't chore.

And so, some things in my household get done: I pay the bills, buy the groceries, cook the meals, fold the laundry, clean the toilets, wipe down the sinks, do the yardwork and gardening. Michael vacuums the carpets and sorts and washes the laundry and unplugs the shower drain on the regular. Helena waters the plants. I'm trying to convince Sam to fill the bird feeders and scoop the cat litter. The trash gets taken out and the dishwasher gets unloaded by whoever is annoyed by it at the time.

But the other stuff? The decluttering and the dusting and the mopping of floors? It just doesn't happen. Ever.

I don't have time during the school year to do this stuff. I have too much on my plate as it is. And I also don't have the money to hire a cleaning lady. It doesn't make financial sense to take on another freelance job just to pay someone to mop the floors.

So, this summer, I have 30 days to get it done.

So far, I've deep cleaned everything in the main bathroom except the floor. And I've gone through all of the stuff in the pantry and refrigerator, and thrown out outdated stuff and donated the stuff we just haven't eaten in the last year. Two huge trash bags of stuff have gone out, and I actually (temporarily) know where everything is in these 2 rooms. I still have to clean out all the kitchen drawers, where crumbs have overtaken the silverware drawer, and where paperclips and coffee grounds have invaded the "cooking implements" drawers. And I still have to mop the damn floors.

Next up, the living room and storage area. Sports equipment and art supplies for days. Everything must go.

And finally, my own bedroom closet, where I am determined to actually purge 6 sizes worth of clothes that no longer fit. 

I wish I had time to sell all the stuff, but I don't. 

I wish I had time to Marie Kondo it, but I don't.

Instead, I'm shoving clutter into trash bags, I'm mailing bags of clothes to ThredUp so I can get 20 cents back on the 1000s of dollars I've spent, and I'm wiping surfaces down with a Clorox wipe and calling it good.

My house will never stand up to the standards of my moms, but I swear it's going to be cleaner around here by the end of 30 days. 

Less stuff. Less clutter. Less dust. Less guilt.

As soon as I mop the damn floors.

Thursday, July 14, 2022

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 101

I've been trying to figure out exactly where and how I contracted this virus. 

I wasn't careful out in California. My goal was to make it there, enjoy every minute, and let the chips fall where they may. I purposely didn't wear a mask on the plane home (I announced) because if I was going to catch it if I hadn't already had it at some point in the last two years then this next week was the perfect time to get it.

And so, here I am. Thanks, foreshadowing. You're swell.

To be clear  there were others on the plane who masked the entire time who also got it. And there were even more who were unmasked all day every day who are magically in the clear. I don't actually think it was the plane. I think it was the public bathroom in San Francisco. But it also could have been a random cough by a passerby anytime, anywhere. It could have been just simply in the air. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's all security theater.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
Even so, I sequester myself outside from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., coming inside only to pee, get the kids out of bed, or find something to eat while I hold my breath in the kitchen. The other 12 hours I sit on my bed, watching Netflix on my computer propped up on a laundry basket, or try to sleep. It might be security theater but it also might not be and I'm still going to trust the medical professionals and science.

I don't feel particularly good, but I don't feel particularly bad. I'm vaxxed and boosted, and I'd been exposed 1000 times before in my job and in my own home, so I'm sure I've got a pretty high immunity to this asshole. Mostly, I'm just tired. Climbing the stairs makes me out of breath. My back is sore, both to touch and to move, like I got in a good workout whilst also getting sunburned. I've got a cold, but it's more annoying than horrible, making me cough at inopportune times, making me sound like a smoker, making my nose run  not enough to blow, just enough to endlessly wipe on my disgusting sleeve. 

And I feel guilty. Guilty that I wasn't careful around my mom. Guilty that I had a long, joking (unmasked) conversation with the pharmacist and my son at the counter, arguing about the metric system, before I came home with my 8 free COVID tests and immediately tested positive.

And I'm bored, but not so bored that the exhaustion fades away enough for me to get the mulch down and weed the garden. I'm bored enough to feel put out that no one can hear me in the house unless I call them on the phone, and I just need to make sure that they took the pizzas out of the oven. I'm bored enough to scroll through my email, but not bored enough to overcome the malaise and respond. I'm bored enough to pull up a crossword puzzle, but I'm too tired to actually do it.

And I know that I am so very, very lucky. I am so privileged to have an outdoor space to sit, to have had access to vaccines, to have had this week of vacation time with very little on my plate, and to have a partner who will step up and take my daughter to practice and my son to get his glasses fixed, even if he also has to ask me how big to chop the onions, as if I have an actual recipe for anything I cook. I still make the coffee for him after he goes to bed, although I am careful not to exhale.

I am one of the lucky ones. Over 1,000,000 people have died in our country alone. I have no underlying conditions. I'm healthy and relatively fit and only just pushing middle-aged. I'm vaxxed. I'm middle class in a middle class community. I'm white, with a history of health and longevity and prosperity in my genetic makeup. 

This will just be an inconvenience, and then I will get on with the rest of my life.

And so...I am annoyed. I am bored. I am not feeling 100%. 

But yet, I am totally fine.