SAA Ep. # 29: Adventures in...Child Care Professionaling?

Before I go any further, let's get one thing straight.  I am NOT a babysitter.  I am a child care provider.  A child care professional, if you will.  What does that mean? 

It means I'm a glorified babysitter.

If you had told me eleven years ago that I would be working in childcare for a living, I would have laughed and laughed at you.  It wasn't that I hated kids, but I wasn't aware that I liked them very much.  I only realized I liked them due to a coincidence.  ...if you believe in coincidences, which I don't.

I spent five summers of my life working at Ridgecrest Baptist Conference Center.  I knew about this place because my dad worked there way back in the 60's, and my sister worked there one summer in the late 90's.  I had never had a job before (and I was 20 years old...pathetic?  Yes.), so I figured I'd give it a shot.  The first summer, they stuck me in the laundry department.  So I folded towels and sheets for an entire summer, and for some odd reason, I liked it.  So when the next summer rolled around, I decided to go back and I requested the laundry department again.

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from a friendly volunteer lady asking me what size t-shirt I would need for the preschool department.  I was like, "Um, I didn't know I was going to be in the preschool department.  I don't really like kids.  Can I be in laundry again?"  But she was just a friendly volunteer lady who didn't know anything about it, so I figured I'd just suck it up for a summer and work with kids.

But that summer, to my amazement, I found out I really liked kids.  I found out that they were pretty much awesome.  And I went back to that summer preschool program three times after that. 

If you count those summers and all the odd childcare jobs I've had, including the almost five years of being a nanny (for three different families) and the over five year gig at the drop-in childcare center, I've been a child care professional for about a decade.

Wow.

And now that I think about it, a person of my particular talents is probably pretty well equipped to be a childcare professional.  I can sing like Mary Poppins and/or Maria from the Sound of Music (I can't magically jump into chalk sidewalk pictures or make playclothes out of curtains, but nobody's perfect...except for Mary Poppins).  I can accurately mimic the sounds of a chicken, a cat, a dog, a frog, a duck, an elephant, a horse, AND a velociraptor (my version of Old McDonald is the stuff of legend).   I can make practically anything out of fuse beads.  Oh, and I'm BFFs with Santa Claus AND the Easter Bunny, which isn't a talent, per se, but it's still pretty cool to a five year old.

But over the years, I've learned some things.  I've learned that kids are full more bodily fluids than I even knew existed, and I've learned that I actually DO have the ability to hold back my gag reflex long enough to clean them up (most of the time).  I've learned that "Tom and Jerry" has magical powers to keep kids of all ages entertained for more than ten minutes.  I've learned that the pizza man being late with his delivery IS a life or death situation.  I've learned that kids say the most hilarious things ever.  I've learned that strong-willed children are often my favorites (yes, I have favorites)...probably because I'm strong-willed, too.

There have been scary things to happen to me in childcare.  Like the time I went to the bathroom and heard the girls I watch say, "What will happen if we throw it down the stairs?"  I'm stuck on the potty (yes, I call it a potty), unable to move, wondering what they're trying to throw down the stairs.  Their mother's vase?  The television set?  The betta fish?  Their little sister?  Turns out, it was just a hacky sack...but I had a mini panic attack before I was able to figure that out.

Let me be honest, here.  I work three (or four, if you count MOPS...or five if you count the random babysitting jobs I sometimes do) jobs in the childcare field.  That gets stressful.  That gets tiring.  Sometimes, it just gets downright old.

But despite all the stress and frustration that comes with taking care of kids, I really am grateful to have so many wonderful kids (and parents) in my life.  The kids at the preschool where I teach (and by teach, I have to admit that my skills are limited to shapes, numbers, colors, animal noises, and "It isn't nice to sit on your friends") just had a music/arts program this past week.  After my class did their portion of the program (they're all 2 or younger, so they basically just stood on stage while I prayed they wouldn't cry...or fall off the stage), I just went into the audience and watched the other kids sing and dance.  I was suddenly just overwhelmed with the knowledge that God's given me the opportunity to love so many kids.

Yes, I would like to eventually be able to support myself just with my writing.  I'd love to be able to call myself a full-time author.  Right now, though, I'm very much enjoying my life with all these fantastic kids.  I get to help shape these little lives, and that's a huge responsibility.  It's also a great joy.

If I ever do get to the point where I can quit my jobs and just write for a living, I have a feeling I'll miss working with kids.  But for now, I'm just loving my life and being VERY grateful for "Tom and Jerry."

Embarrablast from the Past Ep. #11: Fly Guys

I'm not going to lie.  Superman is hot. 

I mean, the dude can manage to wear an outfit THAT ridiculous and actually make it look good.  Not just good--iconic.  Just looking at a pic of Superman makes me think of truth, justice, and the American way.  Only...according to this article I just read, Superman is no longer dedicated to "the American way."  And now that I'm actually thinking about it, since when did I really ever THINK about Superman being an American?  When did I really think about what "the American way" meant?  I guess I always just figured it sounded really cool when the television announcer said it.

Because that's the way I grew up knowing about Superman.  I saw the really old tv show with George Reeves and I saw the (NO NO I WON'T BELIEVE THEY'RE OLD BECAUSE MOST OF THEM WERE MADE IN MY LIFETIME AND I'M NOT OLD) movies with Christopher Reeve.  And I thought that the two Supermans (Supermen??) were related or something because their last names are so similar.  But I didn't read any of the comic books or anything.  My Superman knowledge came from tv and film...mostly film.

Because, again, not going to lie.  I had a thing for Superman.  That's right.  This socially awkward superhero had an epic crush on the ultimate superhero.  As an impressionable ten year old with an overactive imagination, watching Christopher Reeve version Superman fly with Margot Kidder version Lois Lane was pretty much the most romantic thing ever. 

I blame John Williams.

Then, right near the onset of my Superman crush, I saw this dreadful movie called "The Boy Who Could Fly," which I still happen to love (I even own a copy on a state-of-the-art VHS cassette).  It starred this guy named Jay Underwood, who I had the biggest ten-year-old celeb crush on ever.  I think he's a minister now, which makes him even more amazing--although he's married--and has kids--and is quite a bit older than me--and has absolutely no idea who I am. 

Anyway, the movie is about a boy.  A boy who could fly.  As you can see, they were really creative with the title.

The movie features this one "dream sequence" where the lead girl flies off into the sky with the lead boy and has a little romantic scene.  Aww.  The writers quite obviously stole the idea from Superman/Lois Lane.  ...even the music sounds suspiciously similar to John William's miraculous musical mood manipulation.

I ate that stuff up.

So when I was about ten years old, I decided that when I grew up, I was going to find myself a flying boyfriend/husband.  He would come to my balcony and carry me off into the night sky.  We would go soaring together over the city lights, and in the background there would be an orchestra playing some kind of amazing love theme just for us.

I guess I wasn't thinking about how my hair would get messed up or how even if by some miracle there WAS an orchestra playing for us, we wouldn't be able to hear it over the rushing wind.  I'd get cold.  I'd get dizzy.  He would have to take me back after only a few minutes because I'd probably get airsick and barf all over him.  Romantic?  Eh, not so much.

But just when I reached my teenage years and should have realized a relationship with Superman would never work, that epic 90's "Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman" show came out.  And, once again, I was a goner. 

Superman was my kryptonite. 

I was somewhere around the age of twenty when I FINALLY realized that it wasn't a good idea to hold out for a flying hubby.  I wanted to be Lois Lane, rescued by that superhuman hero.  Only, that's not what I needed.  And I eventually came to realize that I'd already been rescued--that I never needed a flying man in bright tights and a cape.  I just needed a Savior, and I already had Him.  The dreams I had that weren't based in reality faded, and visions were set in their place--visions that had nothing to do with theatrical romance or epic John Williams music.  The only way I would ever "fly" would be by following Him. 

I guess that's cheesy, but that's how my 20 year old mind worked it all out. 

And now that I'm thinking about it, would I really want a superhero/flying hubby who fought for "the American way"?  Do truth and justice even fit in the same sentence as the phrase "the American way"?  Because the American way is pretty messed up.  It has little to do with truth or justice.  Basically, the American way is pretty selfish.  Is that what Superman was all about?  No.  So maybe that's why he's an alien now.  I mean...like an alien to the U.S.   I mean...oh nevermind.

Maybe I've missed a lot by not reading the comic books, because the recent ones sound like they're pretty political.  Perhaps I would have never developed a Superman crush at all if I had read the comic books.  Nothing kills romance faster than politics. 

Hmm...maybe if John Williams wrote a stirring political musical theme....

Nah.

SSA Ep. # 28: I Don't Work At Wal-mart, but I Play One On TV

I live in a small (but quickly growing) town that is extremely close to a much larger town.  Because I'm originally from a town that's about as small as the town in which I am currently living, large towns are too big for me.  Most people would consider the much larger town near my small town to be...well, still kind of smallish.  I think of it as a big city...a metropolis, if you will.  I've only been downtown a couple of times, and even then, someone else was driving.  It's because I'm scared of the metropolis...even if the metropolis is really just a large town.

Now, I was either in middle school or high school when something remarkable happened in my small hometown.  It was an event that changed that small town forever.  What was this remarkable event? 

We got a Super Wal-mart.

Never again would we have to make trips to multiple stores.  Wal-mart now had Wal-marty things AND grocieries.  It changed my life, I tell you.  And I knew it was because I was from a small town.  Only in small towns would people get excited about the opening of a Super Wal-mart, right?

Only...a few months ago, in this large town/metropolis that is near the small town where I currently reside, a new Super Wal-mart opened.  And people went crazy.  Apparently, Wal-mart is a big deal whether you live in a small town or a big town. 

I like Wal-mart.  I like it a lot.  I like it because I can get a week's worth of groceries, a birthday present for my niece, a hair dryer, a pair of jeans, and a turkey baster--all in the same place.   If I can find a short check-out lane, I can get in and out in about half an hour.  I like it because it's comfortable.  I know the layout of the store so well that I don't even have to plan my shopping route.  (Other people do that, too, right?  You plot out the best path from the shampoo aisle to the produce aisle, taking account the possible traffic you might find in women's clothing and jewelry as compared to the open aisle next to electronics...right?)  I like it also because I know I'm going to spend less money on all my random purchases, because let's face it--nothing says "CHEAP" like Wal-mart.  The thing I have to be careful about is getting distracted by shiny objects and buying things I don't really need.  But if I'm careful and stick to my list, I'm safe. 

Wal-mart and I are good buddies.  BFFs.  We get along just great.  The only problem I really have with Wal-mart is that I've heard they don't treat their employees very well.  I've had a lot of friends who have worked at Wal-mart who have confirmed this.  The way they spoke, Wal-mart was like the darkest, deepest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

Shrug.

I've never worked at Wal-mart.  Never.

I've been mistaken for a Wal-mart worker more times than I can count.

The first time it happened, I was standing in the deodorant aisle, looking for...well, deodorant.  This older middle aged woman came up to me and asked me where the tampons were.  My first thought was to say, "Are you sure someone your age still needs them?" but instead I just smiled and said I wasn't sure.  She got a all moody and huffed away, which only confirmed my original suspicion that this woman was long past her need for tampons.  Then I realized what had just occurred.  She was asking me where something was because she thought I worked there.

This was the first of many incidents.  There was the lady who asked me if I had any more shirts in her size.  There was the gentleman who asked me to do a price check for him.  There was the other gentleman who wanted me to help him find something.  When I told him I didn't work there, he asked to speak with my manager. 

...?

Yeah.  I'm not sure what it is about me that screams "I WORK AT WAL-MART"...because I don't.  I mean, I can understand how some people might assume I work at Target since I accidently wear red almost every time I go there, but seriously.  I do not have one of those "How can I help you today?" blue vests.  I don't have a name tag with a smiley face on it. 

Maybe I just look like someone who's desperately trying to claw her way out of the deepest, darkest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

...only I don't get an employee discount.

Embarrablast From the Past Ep. #10: The Red Box Machine

Today, I had my second experience using a Red Box machine.  My roommate and I are making Easter a movie day, and I really wanted to watch "Tangled" with her.  So I got it from the Red Box machine (the fact that I'm calling it a "Red Box machine" should probably tell you something about how out of touch I am with dvd rental technology).  It makes me think of my first experience with a Red Box machine....

My friend had a dvd she wanted me to return for her.  She was like, "I don't get off work till 9, and this dvd is due back in the Red Box at 9 or I have to pay an extra dollar.  Can you take it by for me?"

I said, "Sure.  Which Red Box machine do I need to take it to?"

She looked at me kind of weird and said, "Um, it doesn't matter which one you return it to.  You can return them to any Red Box."

I said, "Oh."

And then I took the dvd and stopped off at a grocery store to drop it off.  I located the Red Box machine and went to put the dvd in.  It wouldn't go in.  I pushed and pushed and turned it every different direction I could turn it, and I couldn't get that blasted dvd to go back into the Red Box machine.  I was too embarrassed to ask for help, and even then, everyone seemed busy.  Only they were probably watching me...and laughing...silently. 

Of course, I think everyone is watching me.  STOP IT!

So I went back out to my car and called my friend.  "The dvd wouldn't go back in the machine.  I couldn't get it in the slot!"

She said, "Did you press the "Return dvd" button?"

Awkward silence.  Then me, meekly.  "No."

I hung my head, went back into the store, walked by all the people who had just witnessed my epic battle with the Red Box machine, relocated the Red Box machine, and pressed the "Return dvd" button. 

The dvd went in the slot.

The end.

SAA Ep. #27: Cooking with Fail!

Tim Hawkins is probably my favorite comedian.  He's got this fabulous routine about biscuits being so good they'll make you want to slap your mama.

My grandmother, now she was the best cook in the world.  Don't argue with me on this, because if you think your grandmother is/was a better cook, then you're wrong.  My grandmother was the best. 

I mean, I love green beans.  I love them raw or straight out of the can, no salt added, whatever.  If there is such a thing as a green bean connoisseur, then I am one.  Oh, but my grandmother was an artist.  She could do things with green beans that would make me want to slap my mama. 

Only, yeah, Tim Hawkins was right.  I don't really want to slap my mama, and no amount of culinary genius could drive me to such a point.  I love my mama.  She's the greatest mama in the world.  I am, and have always been, and will always be a mama's girl.  Nothing in the world is going to change that.  So don't get me wrong when I say that my mama did NOT inherit her mom's cooking gene.

Her canned green beans were still good when reheated in the microwave of evil (guess who's been watching too much Megamind?).  Since I spent most of my life being overweight, it's safe to say that my mom's cooking wasn't bad.  It was good, but not anything...ANYTHING...like my grandmother's cooking.

Apparently, my grandmother's cooking gene skips a generation, because my older sister seems to have inherited it.  I have...well...not.  And the way I see it, she's got four kids and a hubby to feed, so she's welcome to the cooking gene.  I don't have as much need for it since I've just got myself to feed.

The thing of it is, I've inherited my mom's cooking ability, only it's worse.  It's much, much worse.  Take the most evil cooking you can think of...and multiply it by six.  That's my cooking.

Sure, I can manage a few basic things.  I can hard boil an egg...usually.  I can make a decent bowl of pasta (with jarred pasta sauce).  There are even some dishes I can make that might make you want to slap your mama.  My guacamole is so amazing that it has been dubbed rockamole (and no, you can't have the recipe, because I don't use one...what I do with avocados, limes, onions, and cilantro is magic.  MAGIC I TELL YOU!!!).  I'm also pretty good at making those giant cookie cakes.  My most recent success was this masterpiece that had my friends raving (both over the appearance and taste):

Yes.  It's a cookie.  A cookie that looks like a pizza.  Go ahead, say it.  I'm awesome.

But I'll let you in on a little secret.  I don't make my own cookie dough.  It's store bought (so is the icing).  I won't tell you which brand of cookie dough I use because I'm mean.  I'm just going to say that I've tried many different kinds of cookie dough, and the kind I use is by far the tastiest.  It's also the cheapest I've found anywhere.  There's a little hint, but that's all I'm giving you.

So yeah, I can cook enough to keep myself happy.  I can even impress people occasionally.  I even went on a spaghetti squash kick for a while and surprised myself by making squash edible.  Squash typically doesn't make me want to slap my mama.  My mama knows what squash used to do to me.  I was never a picky eater--never.  I'd eat yucky broccoli or whatever gross stuff she put in front of me.  But I drew the line at squash.  I couldn't eat the stuff.  Mama tried to make me. 

One of the earliest memories I have is mama trying to force me to eat a forkful of squash.  I was three or four.  I was wearing a pink sweatshirt, or maybe she was.  I remember that pink sweatshirt vividly, though.  I remember it so well because as my mama was forcing squash down my throat, I vomited it back up all over that pink sweatshirt.  Pink and yellow.  Sweatshirt and squash.  Emblazoned in my memory forever and ever. 

Mama never made me eat squash again.

But I figured out that I like squash now...or I did...until I ate so much spaghetti squash that I hated it again.  That's the thing with me.  I usually get on a food kick and eat so much of one certain kind of food that I end up hating it.  That's the extent of my success with food.

Add to the success my many fails--like the time I blew up the microwave trying to cook an egg without cracking it first (doh!), or the time I got all ambitious and tried to make perogies and used the wrong kind of flour so that my dough was hard, salty, and completely inedible, or the time that I forgot to put sugar in my cobbler (surprisingly, it was still kinda tasty--like eating biscuits with jam--but I still fail).  More than once, I've accidentally poured pasta down the sink.  One time I did the same thing with a pot of boiled potatoes I was preparing to mash--on Thanksgiving Day, which meant I had to run to the store for more potatoes at the last minute.

I have issues scrambling eggs (they never look how they're supposed to look).  I forget to cut the fat off chicken and wonder why it tastes all rubbery.  I put cilantro in pretty much everything (seriously, I could write a whole blog about my love of cilantro, and maybe I will someday).  My idea of a good bowl of soup is something that has Campbell's written on the label (insert joke about any soup I eat being Campbell's soup...cuz that's my last name, too). 

The family I "nanny" for has learned that they can trust me with only the most basic of food preparations.  If I'm ever to make dinner, the usual procedure is: "We have plenty of leftovers in the fridge for you to microwave."  Sometimes I'm asked to nuke some chicken nuggets or stick a pre-made pizza in the oven, but they know me.  I am not to be trusted in the kitchen.

But it's okay, because green beans still taste great when I eat them with a fork...straight out of the can because I'm too lazy to get a bowl.

And come to think of it, it's kind of a relief to know that most of the things I cook aren't going to give anyone cause to inflict bodily harm upon their own mother.

Public Service Announcement: You May Know a Writer--Learn the Warning Signs!

Everyday, you see them.  They're driving in the car lane next to you.  They're in the checkout lane behind you.  They're sitting on the pew beside you at church.  They might be your co-workers.  They might be your family members.  They might even be watching...your...children. 

Writers are among us.  They're walking the streets, appearing to be perfectly normal human beings.  All the while, inside their normal-looking heads, insanity lurks.  At any moment, without warning, the writer's focus and passion can change from everyday reality to most bizarre fantasy.

What can the average non-writer citizen do? 

In ye olden days, writers were probably burned at the stake along with presumed witches and tone-deaf minstrels.  Since burning people, even writers, is now frowned upon, there is not much the average non-writer citizen CAN do.  Writers are, and will continue to be, among us.  However, there is hope.  There are ways that you, as an average non-writer, can protect yourself and your family.  Someone you know could be a writer--learn the warning signs!

1) Suspicious Notebooks.  There are many reasons people have for carrying notebooks.  Students carry notebooks.  Teachers carry notebooks.  Notebook salespeople would carry notebooks, but I'm not so sure that's a valid profession.  Writers also carry notebooks sometimes.  If you see a non-teacher/non-student/non-notebook salesperson carrying a notebook on a fairly regular basis, you should not automatically assume that this individual is, in fact, a writer, but pay attention. 

2) Vacant Expressions.  Writers are strange creatures that live in at least two different realms.  One of these realms is usually reality, and yet the writer's connection to reality is sometimes so loose that it can hardly be called a connection at all.  The other connections are to the writer's fantasy worlds.  Often, the writer's fantasy worlds might resemble reality, and other times, the writer's fantasy worlds might resemble a purple planet where unicorns make pie from magical wishing berries.  Whatever the fantasy worlds are like, the writer can visit these worlds at any time.  This means that while a writer is at work (almost all writers have to support themselves by working other jobs--otherwise the writer is known as a successful author, who is even more dangerous) or driving down the road, he or she might be somewhere else entirely.  Vacant expressions alone are not conclusive warning signs, as many people have vacant expressions, but be wary.

3) Maniacal Laughter for No Apparent Reason.  A person who pairs vacant expressions with maniacal laughter for no apparent reason is probably a) mentally unstable, b) a writer, or c) both.

4) Intense Mood Swings. A writer's emotional state can drift from absolute elation (when the writing is going well) to the depths of despair (when the writing is going badly...or not at all) in the span of about 0.021 seconds.  A writer might also feel the need to express his or her elation or depression by extensively ranting about his or her fantasy world to whoever happens to be in hearing range.  When this happens, invest in a good pair of invisible earplugs and learn to fall asleep with your eyes open, because these rants are known to last for hours and drive non-writers to the point of madness.

5) Talking to Oneself. Writers often talk to themselves--because they're trying to work out dialogue, because they actually believe they're living with unicorns who make pie, or because they've just completely gone coo-coo.

6) Delusions of Godhood. Writers are used to controlling all the things that happen in their stories.  Within the confines of their fantasy worlds, they determine who lives and who dies, who falls in love and who falls down a well.  When a writer's delusions of godhood cross over into reality, the only safe thing a non-writer can do is hide until the delusions pass--IF they pass.

7) Imaginary Friends. Writers often start relating so well to their fictional characters that they actually start believing they're alive.  If you know anyone who has imaginary friends, like, say, five Dragons that live in his/her room--then it's probably safe to assume this person is a writer.

You may have noticed that writers exhibit many of the same signs as people who are criminally insane.  This is not a coincidence, since many writers commit heinous atrocities against humanity within the confines of their suspicious notebooks.  If anyone you know displays any or all of the warning signs above, use extreme caution. 

If you encounter a writer in your day to day life, it is best to nod and smile and agree with everything the writer says (no matter how ridiculous and far-fetched it may seem), then excuse yourself as soon as humanly possible.  Do not, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to encourage them or engage in their fantasy world, or they will attempt to draw you into it.  The next thing you know, you'll be attending a magical wishing berry pie party and dressing up as a unicorn.

Run away.

SAA Ep. #26: Book Withdrawal

I was going to write a blog a couple of nights ago, but I couldn't.  I couldn't function enough to form a three word sentence, let alone write an entire blog.  My hands were shaking.  I couldn't think clearly.  All I could do was sit on the floor, rocking back and forth, staring at the phone.  I was waiting for a phone call.  I was waiting for the phone call that would end my misery.  I was waiting for that smooth, automated voice to tell me that my next fix was ready...

...I was waiting for a call from the library to let me know the book I'd reserved was waiting for me.

I made the mistake of reading a book (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins--I highly recommend it, but only if you have immediate access to the sequels) last week without making sure the sequel was readily available.  I finished the first book, only to discover that not only was it extremely well-written and enticing, but it also ended on a cliffhanger (of sorts)!!!!  So I immediately went to reserve the sequel, and was dismayed to find that I was #79 on the waiting list.  Just to be safe, when I reserved the sequel, I also reserved the sequel to the sequel.  When the library finally called, guess which book was ready?  The sequel?  No.  The sequel to the sequel.

I'm still waiting for the sequel.  Anxiously, anxiously awaiting the sequel...  I have bitten off all of my fingernails.

And I'm wondering how in the world I survived waiting for three out of the seven Harry Potter books to come out (book four was still only available in hardcover when I started that addiction).  I do remember rereading the books, watching the first movie (it had just come out) over and over.  I remember reading the fan-theory websites, trying to figure out what was going to happen to poor Harry.  Would he live?  Would he die?  Would Voldemort rule the world?  Would Ron and Hermione ever figure out they were supposed to get married and have red-haired babies?  Those things tided me over.

This time, there is no movie (it's set to come out sometime next year, though!).  I can't read fansites without reading spoilers.  So, there's only that first book.  That first wonderful, addicting book.  Only now it mocks me.  It mocks me because it's over, and I'm left wondering what's going to happen to the characters, who's going to end up with who, if everyone is going to live until the end...

Things have gotten better.  I'm no longer breaking out in cold sweats, muttering the main character's names in my sleep.  But if the library doesn't call me soon, I might have to go do something desperate.  I might...I might...visit...a book dealer...

Please someone out there tell me they can relate to this.  I need to know I'm not the only one nerdy enough to need a book fix!  Have any of you ever suffered from book withdrawal?

SSA Ep. # 25: Would I Have Been in Dumbledore's Army?

Let's pretend Harry Potter is real.

Some people who are reading this might actually be gasping at their computer screens, shouting, "What do you mean PRETEND Harry Potter is real?  OF COURSE Harry Potter is real.  I'm pretty sure the owl who was trying to deliver my Hogwarts letter got eaten by a Kneazle, thus ending my magical education before it even started!!!" 

Ok, so for the sake of sane people, let's pretend that we're JUST pretending Harry Potter is real.  While we're at it, let's pretend that we're pretending Hogwarts is real, too.  Now let's pretend that I got my Hogwarts letter at the age of eleven and was accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  We don't have to pretend to pretend that part, because I can assure you, it did NOT happen. 

BUT if it did happen, I would have been Harry Potter's classmate.  I would have been in the same year as him, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy...you get the idea.  How do I figure that?  According to the death date on Harry's parents' gravestone, they were killed on Oct. 31, 1981.  Harry was a year old when his parents died.  Therefore, Harry Potter was born in 1980.  I was also born in 1980.  So I am the same age as Harry Potter.  (Did you know Harry Potter was 30 years old...almost 31?  The book version is.  Now you know...not that it matters...because MOST of us believe he's not real...).

So let's assume I got my Hogwarts letter and arrived at Hogwarts at the ripe old age of eleven.  I honestly don't remember much about being eleven.  I could barely tie my own shoes, so I'd imagine being on my own in ANY kind of boarding school would be an adventure...so the whole magical thing just takes it to a whole other level.  I'm pretty sure I would have been raised by Muggle parents, pretty much because I WAS raised by Muggle parents.  Well, my mom might be secretly magical...she's kind of awesome like that....

And speaking of my mom, I'm pretty sure a mama's girl like me would have a VERY difficult time adjusting to being away from home.  I would NOT have been placed in Gryffindor.  No, no.  I wouldn't be nearly brave enough.  The Sorting Hat would have taken one look at my cowardly brain and put me in HUFFLEPUFF! 

Back to reality for a moment.  Harry Potter didn't exist until I was almost an adult.  I didn't read any of the books until I was twenty-one, and by that time the fourth book was already out.  In 2001, most good Christian parents were telling their kids to stay away from Harry Potter, saying it was all about witchcraft and evil.  That encouraged me to want to read them (I'm always looking to read things that other Christians call evil--I want to make my own judgments), but I hadn't made the effort yet.  My good Christian parents?  They read the books and told me I HAD to read them.  They put the books into my hands and left me for a weekend to go visit my sister.

I mentally devoured those first four books within the span of three days.  From that time on, I was a Potterhead.  There was no going back.  I imagine that if I had gotten my hands on those books as a I teenager, I would have had wild fantasies about living at Hogwarts.  Shoot, I had wild fantasies about living at Hogwarts even in my 20s...but by that time I think I'd mellowed a little.  See, when I was a teenager, I latched on to whatever fantasy I could.  I did this because my reality pretty much sucked. 

A lot of that was my fault.  I realize that now.  And if anyone from my high school years ever reads this, please accept my apologies for being an arrogant brat.  People didn't like me, but I didn't exactly give them reason to like me.  I thought I was better than everyone, and I'm sure that attitude came out in my actions.

So yeah, I was unpopular.  I was a social misfit.  I still am, but it seems like I fit in better now.  I guess everyone else is a social misfit, too.  My attitude is a lot better now, at any rate.  But my teenage years were so uncomfortable that I sought escape.  I'm a little embarrassed to admit that my favorite fantastical escape was Star Trek.  It was bad....

But I can't help but think that I would have fantasized about Hogwarts if the books had been available when I was fourteen.  I would have imagined myself learning magical spells and going on wild adventures, facing Dementors and Death Eaters, and maybe even fighting Voldemort, himself.  The thing of it is, now that I'm older and wiser, I realize that things would not have gone like that at all.

I would have been just as unpopular at Hogwarts as I was in the real world.  I probably wouldn't have been friends with Ron or Harry.  I mean, getting to hang out with Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom would have been a step up for me.  I might have gotten along, to some degree, with Hermione. 

I even dressed up as Hermione Granger (complete with Crookshanks) for Halloween one year.

I always did well in class, so maybe Hermione would have been nice to me.  But I doubt we would have hung out socially...except for maybe the occasional study group. 

Oh wait...I always preferred to study alone.  I probably would have only left my common room for class and meal times.

And speaking of meal times, they would have been EXTREMELY detrimental to my health and social status.  I was a chunky child and a chunky teenager.  Well, the Great Hall is kind of like a magical All-You-Can-Eat buffet three times a day...and I'm pretty sure pumpkin juice wasn't that healthy.  I'm not picturing just plain old juice from a healthy pumpkin--I'm picturing liquid pumpkin pie complete with a large dollop of cool whip.  I mean, theoretically speaking, the magical food might have had some kind of calorie reducing enchantment...but I doubt it.  I would have gained even more weight at a school like Hogwarts...which would make me less popular.

And I doubt I would have mad magical skills.  Considering the fact that I was fifteen before I learned how to ride a bike and that it took me THREE tries before I got my driver's license, I'm pretty sure that broom riding would NOT be my very special talent.  And even though I understand Quidditch better than MOST sports, I probably would have not understood it enough to enjoy it.  So while the house teams were playing Quidditch and all the other students were down cheering, I'd have probably snuck up to my common room to fantasize about living in a non-magical world or something.

I also would probably suck at Potions class because, well, I can't cook.  And Defense Against the Dark Arts?  No way.  I'm pretty sure my Patronus would be a grub worm or something lame.  That wouldn't scare off any Dementors.  But...then I'd have more excuses to eat chocolate...which again...bad for my waistline and popularity.

The only place where I might have succeeded magically would have been Divinations class...but that's mainly because I like tea.

I have a feeling I'd be a Squib.

And when Voldemort came back, I'd probably just go home and hide with my non-magical parents while Harry Potter and his friends saved the day.  I wouldn't have followed spiders into the Forbidden Forest.  I wouldn't have fought for the freedom of house elves.  I wouldn't have tried to enter the Triwizard Tournament.  I wouldn't have trained in Dumbledore's Army.  I would have sat in my room wishing that my life were different...because the gillyweed is always greener on the other side of the Black Lake.

I would be a Hufflepuff, and that fact used to depress me a lot.  That's because I didn't understand how awesome Hufflepuffs are.  If I had been in Hogwarts as a teenager, I wouldn't have understood how awesome Hufflepuffs are, either.  I didn't realize Hufflepuffs were awesome until fairly recently.

I used to see Hufflepuffs as the left-overs.  If you weren't evil enough to be in Slytherin, or smart enough to be in Ravenclaw, or brave enough to be in the coveted Gryffindor, then the Sorting Hat would just throw you into Hufflepuff: The Leftover House.

But that's not a true representation of a Hufflepuff.  Cedric Diggory (before Voldemort turned him into a sparkly vampire) was in Hufflepuff.  What was so awesome about Cedric Diggory?  What's so awesome about most Hufflepuffs?  They're honest.  They're fair.  They're compassionate.  They're encouraging.  They work hard, and they care about others.  Eventually, and probably years after I graduated fair Hogwarts, I would have realized that being a Hufflepuff is a great honor.  That's when I would have known the truth that my life was just as it should be...that there was no fantasy greater than the reality of my magical life!

...but we're just pretending, remember?

SSA: Ep. #24: Exercising Patience

If you've read any of my previous blogs, you might have caught on to the fact that I don't always play well with others. I think this is one of the reasons I got picked last (or next to last--there was that kid who smelled like cabbage) for all organized games. Also, I was probably picked last because I pretty much suck at sports.

Maybe this is why I'm one of those people who likes to exercise solo. I'm not one of those team sports sort of people. I'm not one of those group walking people. I'm not going to tell you which kind of person I am...because I already told you, and I repeat myself too much as it is.

The only exception to my rule of not liking to exercise with others is when I'm walking in some kind of event--like a 5k. Then, the more the merrier. We're walking for a cause and the togetherness is actually pretty cool. But exercising in general? I want to do it all by myself, Mommy.

Some people are the type that get a lot of encouragement or whatever in walking or jogging with others. I don't understand this. I guess it's nice to have a buddy to hold you accountable or make you feel safe. Other than that, I just really can't think of an upside.

Perhaps there are those who want someone with them so they won't be alone. They want someone to talk with. Okay, but when I'm exercising, I'm usually out of breath. Talking isn't the easiest of activities. I don't really like having to converse between gasps. Also, I kind of like having a good hour or whatever to myself to just think. Usually, my thought processes involve conversations with myself about why I would be a gurlymahn if I didn't keep running another few feet, but still...


I have these ridiculously short legs, too. So it takes me more energy than a long legged person to move my legs. My stride takes two steps for a normal-lengthed-leg person to take one step. So I'm always feeling like my pace is too slow for the other person's. Either that, or I end up walking with someone who doesn't get the concept that I'm walking for exercise. They stroll. I don't like strollers...except for the ones that hold cute kids. Cute kids are awesome.


And I actually DO like walking for exercise while pushing a stroller with a cute kid, but I don't get as many opportunities as I'd like...anyone wanna hire me to push their kid in a stroller? I'm game.



Another thing I really don't like when exercising is interruptions. This is why I don't cross any main intersections while walking or jogging. I don't want to wait for traffic. (Also, I really just HATE crossing the street when there's a lot of traffic. I couldn't handle living in New York. I walk out of my way to avoid busy intersections if at all possible....I may eventually write a blog about my fear of crossing the street). I am fortunate enough to live right next to this beautiful stretch of road with all these old historic houses and such. It's a fantastic place to walk/jog. I am sure that both sides of the street are equally beautiful, but I've only spent a great deal of time on one of them. I run up the sidewalk, and instead of crossing the street, I turn around and run back down the same sidewalk. Usually, this isn't a problem, but I've accidentally almost ran into some other runners. The "oh, we're about to run into each other, so both of us better move out of the way at the same time and in the same direction dance" is even more awkward when you and the other runner are moving really fast.


And I'm not sure if I can say "other runner" because I'm only "a runner" in the technical sense. Sometimes I run. Therefore I am a runner. I can barely run a mile (and sometimes I don't even get that far) without stopping to walk. My running is an odd combination of walking, jogging, and running. So I guess I'm more of a waljogner.


Crossing the road is not the only interruption I've encountered. At least once a week, I run into (almost literally) the crowd of teenagers that doesn't seem to understand that they don't own the sidewalk. I've learned not to expect them to move. I just run around them now, and usually they act like I'm not even there. Maybe I'm invisible to teenagers. Shrug.



Another time, back when I was in college, I had these two Jehovah's Witnesses stop me while I was walking. Dude. I don't care who you are or what your business is. I don't care if it's broad daylight and in a nice neighborhood. It is NEVER okay for two men to approach a lady on the street when she is alone. Maybe if I were a better Christian or something, I would have tried to them about what I believe about Jesus and the Bible, but all I said to them was, "Um, I'm actually trying to exercise here...." And I kept walking. They didn't follow me.



Just to redeem myself a little, I would like to point out that the other day, I actually interrupted myself. There was this elderly lady walking a St. Bernard. Yeah. Not a good combination. Another dog barked, the St. Bernard was startled, and the St. Bernard started dragging the lady down the street. She regained control after getting really shaken up, but I stopped to make sure she was okay. The dog looked up at me, and I realized it thought it was a puppy. That was the biggest puppy I've ever seen, and I told him so. And he drooled, cuz that's what St. Bernards do.


Yeah. I kind of have my own way of exercising, and it's apparently working for me. I'm sure I'd benefit more from a personal trainer or whatever, but I've lost almost 20 pounds since January--and I have lost almost 50 pounds since I decided I was going to lose weight the first time. I'm skinnier than I was when I was a teenager. Which leads me to wonder why there are some people out there who still feel the need to give me diet and exercise advice. Or people try to sell me a gym membership. The reason I bought a used ellpitical (named Jerkface) was so I wouldn't have to go pay to use someone else's elliptical while other people were ellipitcalling all around me. Oh well. I've learned to nod and smile a lot.




Nodding and smiling probably burns a few calories, so I shouldn't complain.

SAA Ep.# 23: Being Bored in Public

Peanut butter kills people.

It's not a laughing matter at all. I work with kids. I know TONS of kids with peanut allergies severe enough to kill them. I know adults with the same problem. I'm related to adults who can't eat peanuts without needing immediate medical attention.

Me? Oh, I eat peanut butter on a weekly basis. Sometimes, if I've run out of money for groceries, I eat peanut butter on a daily basis. I'm quite fond of peanut butter. It's probably one of my favorite foods. You can combine it with chocolate. You can combine it with celery and raisins. You can put it in a sandwich or a cookie or a pie or cake...even the icing. My great grandmother even put it in ice cream--which was amazing. It works equally well with jelly, jam, bananas, AND honey. You can eat it with a spoon. George Washington Carver was a genius. Peanut Butter is like one of the most amazing and versatile foods in the world.

And it kills people.

In The DiVinci Code (which I only read because everyone said it was heresy), there was actually a dude murdered by peanut. Peanuts, in their raw, roasted, boiled, and butter form, are deadly. Like if you ever found a colony of people with peanut allergies and forced them to eat peanut butter, you would have peanuts as weapons of mass destruction. Have you ever just stopped to consider this--how a food that millions of people eat EVERY DAY means SUDDEN DEATH for other people?

I have. I have pondered it at length. It's one of the many things I ponder when I am faced with being bored in public.

Public boredom happens when:

1) I am in a meeting, class, lecture, sermon, etc. and am uninterested in the topic of said meeting, class, lecture, sermon, etc.

2) When I'm waiting for something/someone and don't have anything to do while I'm waiting.

3) When I'm at a party or other social event and there's nothing to do/no one to talk with...and it's too soon to leave without being rude.

There are a variety of ways to cope with being bored in public. In high school, when I had nothing to do and didn't have any friends (aww), I'd sit all by myself and write the worst poetry ever written. I'd also sit around and ponder the potential lethality of peanut butter. I was emo before emo was cool...or before it even existed.

Being a writer has made it easy for me to have things to do when bored in public, provided I have a notebook, post-it note, clean napkin, used napkin, old receipt, program/bulletin to write on. In class, in meetings...in...church ... I've often become bored with whatever the speaker is saying, and I've used the time to work on writing ideas or poetry. I will say that USUALLY when I become bored in sermons, I TRY to write poetry or ideas that actually have to do with the sermon topic. ...Don't judge me...

I've also made a habit of staring at the carpet, at the chair in front of me, at the back of the person's head in front of me, at the ceiling...you know, whatever there is to look at. Then, I'd let my mind wander, though it really is too small to be outside by itself...

In middle school, the carpet in the auditorium where I waited for my bus had this really interesting pattern. This was back in the early 90s when those Magic Eye pictures were just so gosh-darn popular. I remember staring at the carpet trying to make magic eye pictures come out. While there were no pictures, you'd be surprised what you can make look 3-D by crossing your eyes in just the right way. I always had a gift, a GIFT, I tell you, for seeing those Magic Eye pictures. Unfortunately, like most of my gifts, it is completely useless.

The sanctuary...I mean...WORSHIP CENTER of the church I attended as a child has THE EXACT SAME kind of chandeliers as the Worship Center of the church I attend now. I know this because I spent a large portion of my childhood staring at the church's chandeliers. I stared at them, wondering why there were these little circular brass loops at the bottom of them. Was that just in case we decided to host a team of acrobats? I mean, I'm sure they could have lots of fun swinging from the little loops--the chandeliers would have made AWESOME trapezes.

I also imagined what would happen if these chandeliers ever fell from the ceiling. Morbid? Yes...but entertaining. I wondered if the deacons would all leap up and form a human barrier, protecting the other people from the falling lamps of death. Would they start shouting, "Everybody out! Pastors wives and children first!" Or would it be a free-for-all? Every man for himself! Seriously, I had like an elaborate escape plan all worked out in my mind, just in case the chandeliers started falling. Then I got Spiritual and started planning how I'd put the welfare of others before myself--I started planning how I would place myself under the falling chandeliers before they took out the youth minister. Of course, then, I had to be on constant alert, just in case one of the chandeliers began to fall.

They never did...but it could happen. You never know. ...WATCH THE CHANDELIERS...

If you're not as creative...or morbid...as I am, there's always the old standby. Play with your cell phone. It's not exactly ethical, but cell phones have opened whole new opportunities in public boredom entertainment. You can pretend to text someone. You can actually text someone. This is especially helpful if you're in a social situation (like a bad party) that involves boredom. If you're texting, then you don't have to make small talk. As you may have guessed, I've been in this situation more than once...

If you don't want to pretend to text, you can play with the phone calculator. Seriously...do you know how many things you can calculate? You can calculate how many minutes you've been alive. You can calculate how much sleep you've had in the past week. You can calculate the number of ways you can use a calculator to alleviate social boredom! The possibilities are nearly endless.

You can even calculate how long it will take to kill someone with peanut butter....