I'm the first to admit that I'm a stickler for details. Which is why so many projects get pushed to the sidelines. I know that a simple project is going to take far longer than the creation of the earth because I have to have it nearly perfect when it's done. (nearly, because even *I* know that I'm not ever going to be perfect.)
From the day we moved into this house nearly two years ago, I started renovating and redecorating. In my head.
The first thing we planned was to replace the 80's throwback faucet in the kitchen. We had actually planned to redo the whole kitchen, cabinets and all. While the cabinets are fine and most straight folks love love love seeing all oak woodwork in a house, it's all a bit, well, straight for me.
I wanted cherry cabinets.
But then we priced it, and that went out the window.
So I settled for replacing the tarnished brass hardware. In my head.
Then comes the painting.
The laundry room was a shiny, dark, lipstick red. The 1/2 bath was covered in a gaudy floral wall-paper. And the dining room was sunshine yellow. The kitchen and back hall, we discovered, had never been painted. The builder's "off-white" was still there, 13 years later.
That first winter we painted the kitchen right before Christmas. The paint was still drying when family showed up.
Last year, I tore the wall paper off the 1/2 bath. And with it, half the wall board underneath because someone didn't properly seal the walls before applying industrial strength adhesive to the paper. And, yes, I tried that little scoring thingy, soaking the paper, steaming the paper, praying with the paper.
So I had my first experience with skimcoating the entire 1/2 bath with a new layer of joint compound. The best comparison, (and I know this is gay) is frosting a cake. You always try to get it as smooth as possible, but you always end up with those riffs and plateaus. I figured in the case of the walls, I would have the benefit of being able to sand it then paint it with a flat paint. Because they say flat paint covers the small imperfections.
I also discovered they had hung the light fixture without a junction box (that's the little plastic box behind the drywall that the wires run into and the light is screwed into.) It was just a hole, with wires dangling and the light was attached to the drywall. And when I tried to put up the new fixture, the only thing holding it up was some wet paint and a little hope.
The skim coat I put up was awful. After I painted, I noticed that the flat Tuscan red color I had chosen actually made my flaws look worse. What resulted looked like a topical map of the southwest. And again, the paint was wet when people showed up for Christmas last year.
The entire room needed to be re-skimcoated and sanded.
On top of that, I had only gotten around to replacing about half of the ugly brass hardware in the kitchen with my elegant oil-rubbed bronze pulls and hinges. And while I had hoped to replace all of the dirty, scratched and yellowing off-white switches and outlets with clean white new ones, I had only gotten to the switches thus far.
This spring, we had high hopes of lots of projects. We got new faucets. New lights. More paint. New hinges and handles for the doors. The rest of the hinges and pulls for the kitchen. Tile for the laundry room. Tile for the wall behind the stove.
And here we are in fall and the piles of materials still sit in the dining room.
Until last week.
I had what my cousin calls a Popeye moment. "I just can't takes it anymore!"
I don't know if it was the tons of the original, 13 y/o tarnished brass handles, knobs, hinges, lights and faucets that still remained (all to be replaced with oil-rubbed bronze.) but here, my dear readers, is the list of what I've accomplished in the last week. And why I haven't written anything lately.
1. re-skimcoated the 1/2 bath.
2. removed a section of drywall and installed a junction box.
3. replaced drywall section.
4. sanded the high gloss lipstick colored laundry room.
5. replaced the handles and hinges on 6 interior doors.
6. replaced front door handle and hinges.
7. installed kick-plate and new handle on front storm door.
8. replaced 15 outlets.
9. replaced 6 air vents
10. replaced 2 light switches.
11. sanded and painted front door trim.
12. replaced 52 cabinet hinges.
13. replaced 4 cabinet pulls.
14. sanded and sanded and sanded the 1/2 bath.
15. painted the 1/2 bath
16. painted the laundry room.
17. removed laundry room linoleum.
18. painted laundry room cabinets, door and window.
19. painted ceilings in laundry room, back hall and 1/2 bath.
20. installed new light in 1/2 bath.
21. installed new mirror in 1/2 bath.
22. installed new faucet in 1/2 bath.
23. oiled and cleaned woodwork, cabinets and doors.
I know. All that in just a week.
And I'm still not done.
We still have to put tile in the laundry room and behind the stove, paint the living room, replace the kitchen faucet, restain the deck furniture, paint the master bedroom, master bath and all it's trim, door and windows, hang three ceiling fans, fix two toilets, replace one window AND landscape the front yard.
And I'm still on the Popeye kick for now. So it may be a while before you hear from me again.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
sappy fag
Damn NPR. Damn them to hell. Not because of some political bent some folks believe they have. Not because their reporting isn't always perfect or because their interviews don't always ask the questions I'd like asked.
But damn them and their real life stories.
OK. Don't get me wrong. I love NPR. My radio is always tuned to it. Morning Edition on the way to work. All Things Considered on the way home. And if I'm lucky, I get to catch This American Life on the weekends.
I do get tired of hearing the same things over and over. i.e.: The war in Iraq, the housing market, and what the overcrowded pool of presidential candidates are doing now to keep us from falling asleep during the 200th debate.
It's the last 10 minutes of the shows that I live for. That's when I get to hear the commentary from some of my favorite folks like Andre Condrescu.
Usually, these commentaries don't do anything but give me a break from all the political hoo-ha that the media calls news.
Last Friday, though, on the way home one of them caught me by surprise. It was a hospital chaplain recalling her first assignment some 20 years ago. It was a visit to a family who had a little girl dying of cancer.
I've heard lots of stories involving cancer. They're usually touching, but usually end in a "chicken soup for the soul" kind of way.
See, I had childhood cancer (acute lymphocytic leukemia, to be exact) when I was seven. I was lucky. I lived. (obviously.) No bone marrow transplant. No radiation.
But now that I'm a teacher working with kids who are the age that I was when I was diagnosed, I can't imagine any of those little bodies having to go through what mine did. And I can't imagine their parents having to look and take care of such an innocent and unmarked life knowing that they may not make it.
Listening to the story got my attention. But as soon as the commentator quoted what she heard the mom say to the little four year old who lay dying in the hospital I lost it.
All she said was, "You're such a good girl, Anna. And mommy's right here with you."
It brought back every memory of my mom being right there at my side. And how I had no idea what was happening to me, but that I didn't like it. One bit. And I thought about that poor little girl. She had no idea what was happening to her. Or why her body was giving out. Or why she was in pain.
But the fact that her mom chose to say what she said hit me. She knew it wasn't going to "OK." Or that everything was going to be "fine." She said the one thing that the little girl could understand. She was a "good" girl. She put up all the fight a four year old body could muster and was loosing.
Then the story went on to tell about Anna's older sister coming in to see her. And how the sister didn't understand what was going on or the importance of why she be there as her sister dies.
All she knew was that Anna was getting all the attention.
So the chaplain, who came in to baptize Anna, asked her sister if she would like to be baptized at the same time.
It was the last moment they would share together as sisters.
Which turned my misty eyes into an all out sob.
My older brother and sister raced through my head at that moment.
My brother, who's always been very laid back, took it all better than my sister. While I was getting hours worth of blood transfusions, he held me in his lap and read to me and watched TV with me, not knowing if that was the last thing we would ever do as brothers.
My sister, who was going through adolescence, didn't fare as well. As she was going through those junior high years and needed the most attention from my mom, she got the least attention. And she knew it.
She still came to see me in the hospital. And even brought jello cookies (which were too hard for me to eat because of the unbearable joint pains I had) Imagine how that felt. There she was. Giving me the one thing she could give me, and I wouldn't have it. That could have been her last memory of me. Denying the gift she had brought me.
It wasn't fair. And though I know there's nothing I could have done, sometimes I feel the guilt that I took my parents away from my siblings for three years. And three years in kid-years is a LONG time.
Thankfully, my sister and I get along swell in our adulthood. We don't talk about that part of our lives. And that's OK.
This whole mess of crying in the car took me by complete surprise. I rarely cry. Every once in a while I get a lump in the throat during a good movie. But never a big enough one to cry. (save one)
The last time I had a good, big cry was after my marathon in '99. THAT one took me by surprise.
I was on my last quarter mile. I could see the finish line. I could see my mom, my sister and my friends there cheering me on. And out of nowhere, tears started forming in my eyes. I was thinking about how amazing and somewhat miraculous it was that not only had I survived cancer, but had just lost an incredible amount of weight and less than 2 years prior, had never run. And when I got to the finish line, I threw my arms around the woman who gave me life not once, but twice. My amazing mom. We both cried.
I don't remember what we said. I just remember holding her in my arms and feeling more alive, thankful and lucky than I'd ever felt before, and in hindsight, since.
And then there's the movie Wit. If you haven't seen it, get it. NOW. It's about a woman dying of cancer. Alone.
I don't sob at the end of it. But it always makes me cry. And it always starts when an old professor of hers comes into her hospital room to read her a book. And she reads a children's book about a bunny.
And now, after today, I've decided I now have a hormonal imbalance of some kind.
This morning, on the way to the gym at 5:20 a.m., I was listening to my usual NPR. And on comes a commentary I've been following all week from a young dentist in Iraq named Hassan. He's had ups and downs this week. But none like the down he had today.
Hassan's best friend, Mohannad, was kidnapped. And after Mohannad's family paid a $20,000 ransom, the kidnappers agreed to free him. Then, as Hassan and Mohannad's family waited in the market where the kidnappers were going to free him, the kidnappers pulled up in a van and dumped Mohannad's beaten and beheaded body in the market.
Out of nowhere, again, I started crying. But I was about to go into the gym, so I had to start thinking happy thoughts.
Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows. Waterfalls.
But those freakin' NPR bastards followed it with another commentary from a Vietnam Vet sharing the story about the death of HIS best friend.
Holy shit. I actually had to sit in the car for a few minutes to regain a little composure lest anyone in the gym actually see my puffy red eyes and begin talking to me. (I hate people talking to me while I'm working out.)
NPR folks: I love the commentary. But enough with the children dying of cancer and the best friends being killed. At least for a few weeks, lets stick to puppies, kittens, rainbows and waterfalls.
But damn them and their real life stories.
OK. Don't get me wrong. I love NPR. My radio is always tuned to it. Morning Edition on the way to work. All Things Considered on the way home. And if I'm lucky, I get to catch This American Life on the weekends.
I do get tired of hearing the same things over and over. i.e.: The war in Iraq, the housing market, and what the overcrowded pool of presidential candidates are doing now to keep us from falling asleep during the 200th debate.
It's the last 10 minutes of the shows that I live for. That's when I get to hear the commentary from some of my favorite folks like Andre Condrescu.
Usually, these commentaries don't do anything but give me a break from all the political hoo-ha that the media calls news.
Last Friday, though, on the way home one of them caught me by surprise. It was a hospital chaplain recalling her first assignment some 20 years ago. It was a visit to a family who had a little girl dying of cancer.
I've heard lots of stories involving cancer. They're usually touching, but usually end in a "chicken soup for the soul" kind of way.
See, I had childhood cancer (acute lymphocytic leukemia, to be exact) when I was seven. I was lucky. I lived. (obviously.) No bone marrow transplant. No radiation.
But now that I'm a teacher working with kids who are the age that I was when I was diagnosed, I can't imagine any of those little bodies having to go through what mine did. And I can't imagine their parents having to look and take care of such an innocent and unmarked life knowing that they may not make it.
Listening to the story got my attention. But as soon as the commentator quoted what she heard the mom say to the little four year old who lay dying in the hospital I lost it.
All she said was, "You're such a good girl, Anna. And mommy's right here with you."
It brought back every memory of my mom being right there at my side. And how I had no idea what was happening to me, but that I didn't like it. One bit. And I thought about that poor little girl. She had no idea what was happening to her. Or why her body was giving out. Or why she was in pain.
But the fact that her mom chose to say what she said hit me. She knew it wasn't going to "OK." Or that everything was going to be "fine." She said the one thing that the little girl could understand. She was a "good" girl. She put up all the fight a four year old body could muster and was loosing.
Then the story went on to tell about Anna's older sister coming in to see her. And how the sister didn't understand what was going on or the importance of why she be there as her sister dies.
All she knew was that Anna was getting all the attention.
So the chaplain, who came in to baptize Anna, asked her sister if she would like to be baptized at the same time.
It was the last moment they would share together as sisters.
Which turned my misty eyes into an all out sob.
My older brother and sister raced through my head at that moment.
My brother, who's always been very laid back, took it all better than my sister. While I was getting hours worth of blood transfusions, he held me in his lap and read to me and watched TV with me, not knowing if that was the last thing we would ever do as brothers.
My sister, who was going through adolescence, didn't fare as well. As she was going through those junior high years and needed the most attention from my mom, she got the least attention. And she knew it.
She still came to see me in the hospital. And even brought jello cookies (which were too hard for me to eat because of the unbearable joint pains I had) Imagine how that felt. There she was. Giving me the one thing she could give me, and I wouldn't have it. That could have been her last memory of me. Denying the gift she had brought me.
It wasn't fair. And though I know there's nothing I could have done, sometimes I feel the guilt that I took my parents away from my siblings for three years. And three years in kid-years is a LONG time.
Thankfully, my sister and I get along swell in our adulthood. We don't talk about that part of our lives. And that's OK.
This whole mess of crying in the car took me by complete surprise. I rarely cry. Every once in a while I get a lump in the throat during a good movie. But never a big enough one to cry. (save one)
The last time I had a good, big cry was after my marathon in '99. THAT one took me by surprise.
I was on my last quarter mile. I could see the finish line. I could see my mom, my sister and my friends there cheering me on. And out of nowhere, tears started forming in my eyes. I was thinking about how amazing and somewhat miraculous it was that not only had I survived cancer, but had just lost an incredible amount of weight and less than 2 years prior, had never run. And when I got to the finish line, I threw my arms around the woman who gave me life not once, but twice. My amazing mom. We both cried.
I don't remember what we said. I just remember holding her in my arms and feeling more alive, thankful and lucky than I'd ever felt before, and in hindsight, since.
And then there's the movie Wit. If you haven't seen it, get it. NOW. It's about a woman dying of cancer. Alone.
I don't sob at the end of it. But it always makes me cry. And it always starts when an old professor of hers comes into her hospital room to read her a book. And she reads a children's book about a bunny.
And now, after today, I've decided I now have a hormonal imbalance of some kind.
This morning, on the way to the gym at 5:20 a.m., I was listening to my usual NPR. And on comes a commentary I've been following all week from a young dentist in Iraq named Hassan. He's had ups and downs this week. But none like the down he had today.
Hassan's best friend, Mohannad, was kidnapped. And after Mohannad's family paid a $20,000 ransom, the kidnappers agreed to free him. Then, as Hassan and Mohannad's family waited in the market where the kidnappers were going to free him, the kidnappers pulled up in a van and dumped Mohannad's beaten and beheaded body in the market.
Out of nowhere, again, I started crying. But I was about to go into the gym, so I had to start thinking happy thoughts.
Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows. Waterfalls.
But those freakin' NPR bastards followed it with another commentary from a Vietnam Vet sharing the story about the death of HIS best friend.
Holy shit. I actually had to sit in the car for a few minutes to regain a little composure lest anyone in the gym actually see my puffy red eyes and begin talking to me. (I hate people talking to me while I'm working out.)
NPR folks: I love the commentary. But enough with the children dying of cancer and the best friends being killed. At least for a few weeks, lets stick to puppies, kittens, rainbows and waterfalls.
Monday, September 10, 2007
tri for four
I'm actually so organized right now, I have a bit of free time over my lunch break that I can tell ya'll how the last tri of the season went.
But first, a short recap of the weekend.
I went to St. Louis over Labor Day just because. We got to see my one and only nephew and see my brother's new house and run into my distant and uninterested dad.
Plus Oliver, my dog, got to visit with "big mama," his affectionate name for my my mom. He's felt a lot of pressure lately to up the cuteness around her. For the longest time, he and my sister's dogs held the position of granddogs, unchallenged by real grandkids. Big mama treated them just like they were real grandkids. She had a toy basket just for them. Freely handed out treats. And doted them with attention that my sister and I don't have time for. But with my brother's son Will turning one, Oliver feels the competition for the love and affection of big mama. So he's always excited to get a chance to schmooze with her every chance he gets. As we say, put his "stank" on her.
I asked my mom if she would want to come and see my last race this weekend. I didn't get a response that minute, so I called the middle of the week to find out if she was coming.
It's a feat for mom to make any long distance trip nowadays. Besides the hip replacement replacement still healing, she's now dealing with a torn rotator cuff in her right arm. (the left rotator cuff was torn and repaired a few years ago.) Not to mention her arthritis which constantly strains her joints.
I wasn't surprised when she said she didn't feel up to it.
But some weird vibe inside me told me that we would be having company this weekend. So, instinctively, I began to clean house. I started by shampooing the carpets. (Oliver had some volatile diarrhea a couple weeks ago.) Then vacuuming, straightening up the guest rooms, finishing up the laundry, and organizing what I could.
See, when mom comes, we have to 'mom-clean' the house. Not because she's judgmental about our house, but because if we don't, she will. And there's nothing warm and fuzzy about seeing your gimpy mom clean your house.
Low and behold, we get a call Friday night from mom announcing her late afternoon arrival on Friday.
I was happy, but it threw a wrench in my weekend plans.
This was one of the rare weekends around here that cool stuff was actually going on. I had planned on going to the Farmer's Market with Beth on Saturday morning. Making brunch with her. Then I would head to Lawrence to see the only parade worth seeing: KU's Band Day parade... because it's just bands. No stupid floats getting in the way of the pageantry of marching bands we all secretly love.
Then that evening I would head to Lake Shawnee to see the Huff-n-Puff hot air balloon glow and then a late dinner before bedtime.
Well, I did get to go to the Farmer's Market. Then Beth and I had a lovely brunch on her lovely patio. But then I had to head home to do some seriously overdue yard work.
Though mother nature is clinging to summer, the leaves are not clinging to their trees. The hot and dry weather has depressed the trees to the point of giving up and shedding their leaves in August. And I just wasn't ready to rake leaves in 90 degree weather.
Mom was coming, though. And it had to be done.
I mowed.
Mom showed up at 6.
We had a overfilling-where's-my-eattin'-dress meal at Paisano's. Good food. Shitty service.
I give them a reprieve of too early a wake up call (say, 4:00 a.m.) and we get up at 5:00 a.m. and head to KCK (kansas city kansas).
The race was fine. Lots of people. Warm water. Cool weather.
But I tried to run a triathlon on residual fitness.
Good in theory. Bad in practice.
The last two weeks I've not done one workout. Not even one.
And you could tell.
While I felt strong coming out of the water and hopping on the bike, You could tell by the end of the run that something wasn't right.
One word: HILLS. Lots of fucking hills. But as always, it's all smiles when it's done.
But first, a short recap of the weekend.
I went to St. Louis over Labor Day just because. We got to see my one and only nephew and see my brother's new house and run into my distant and uninterested dad.
Plus Oliver, my dog, got to visit with "big mama," his affectionate name for my my mom. He's felt a lot of pressure lately to up the cuteness around her. For the longest time, he and my sister's dogs held the position of granddogs, unchallenged by real grandkids. Big mama treated them just like they were real grandkids. She had a toy basket just for them. Freely handed out treats. And doted them with attention that my sister and I don't have time for. But with my brother's son Will turning one, Oliver feels the competition for the love and affection of big mama. So he's always excited to get a chance to schmooze with her every chance he gets. As we say, put his "stank" on her.
I asked my mom if she would want to come and see my last race this weekend. I didn't get a response that minute, so I called the middle of the week to find out if she was coming.
It's a feat for mom to make any long distance trip nowadays. Besides the hip replacement replacement still healing, she's now dealing with a torn rotator cuff in her right arm. (the left rotator cuff was torn and repaired a few years ago.) Not to mention her arthritis which constantly strains her joints.
I wasn't surprised when she said she didn't feel up to it.
But some weird vibe inside me told me that we would be having company this weekend. So, instinctively, I began to clean house. I started by shampooing the carpets. (Oliver had some volatile diarrhea a couple weeks ago.) Then vacuuming, straightening up the guest rooms, finishing up the laundry, and organizing what I could.
See, when mom comes, we have to 'mom-clean' the house. Not because she's judgmental about our house, but because if we don't, she will. And there's nothing warm and fuzzy about seeing your gimpy mom clean your house.
Low and behold, we get a call Friday night from mom announcing her late afternoon arrival on Friday.
I was happy, but it threw a wrench in my weekend plans.
This was one of the rare weekends around here that cool stuff was actually going on. I had planned on going to the Farmer's Market with Beth on Saturday morning. Making brunch with her. Then I would head to Lawrence to see the only parade worth seeing: KU's Band Day parade... because it's just bands. No stupid floats getting in the way of the pageantry of marching bands we all secretly love.
Then that evening I would head to Lake Shawnee to see the Huff-n-Puff hot air balloon glow and then a late dinner before bedtime.
Well, I did get to go to the Farmer's Market. Then Beth and I had a lovely brunch on her lovely patio. But then I had to head home to do some seriously overdue yard work.
Though mother nature is clinging to summer, the leaves are not clinging to their trees. The hot and dry weather has depressed the trees to the point of giving up and shedding their leaves in August. And I just wasn't ready to rake leaves in 90 degree weather.
Mom was coming, though. And it had to be done.
I mowed.
Mom showed up at 6.
We had a overfilling-where's-my-eattin'-dress meal at Paisano's. Good food. Shitty service.
I give them a reprieve of too early a wake up call (say, 4:00 a.m.) and we get up at 5:00 a.m. and head to KCK (kansas city kansas).
The race was fine. Lots of people. Warm water. Cool weather.
But I tried to run a triathlon on residual fitness.
Good in theory. Bad in practice.
The last two weeks I've not done one workout. Not even one.
And you could tell.
While I felt strong coming out of the water and hopping on the bike, You could tell by the end of the run that something wasn't right.
One word: HILLS. Lots of fucking hills. But as always, it's all smiles when it's done.
Friday, September 7, 2007
as all good things must
My summer is officially over.
Even though mother nature disagrees by forcing weeks on end of 90+ temps on us, my summer was over the first week of August.
I know. Why didn't I tell you sooner? Well, I've had this weird surge of "super-teacher" coming out of me since I started back at school. Maybe it's the weight loss, maybe it's that after 3-years of being in this district I feel like I know what I'm doing. Maybe I'm just over compensating for something else? Who knows.
I do know that I've got third graders sight reading music.
That's right, bitches. THIRD GRADERS. I rock.
But I must look back for a second.
This summer rocked all it's own. It rivals the summer of '98. And anyone who knows me knows that's saying a lot. I got to travel to California with my brother and reconnect (as much as one can when dealing with a person with dementia) with an estranged grandma. I got to visit with mom, help kids who have it worse off than I can imagine and visit an old friend named Joseph (and his FABULOUS coat.) Sure I got discriminated against by some good Christians who want to help kids with cancer, but that was just a growing experience.
And you just can't beat getting to play housewife. Going to ab class and then lunch with the ladies.
Plus, though I still call her Trainer Beth, she's really become Friend Beth. And I helped her move into the cutest cottage-style house any gay boy could wish for.
Oh, and don't forget the three triathlons. Well, four if you count the fake one Beth and I did just for fun my last weekend before school officially started.
Yes, I know. You have to be something of a masochist to run a fake triathlon... for fun. And I LOVED it. And then topping it off with a lovely dinner with Beth, her sister Leigh and her nicer-than-most husband.
The daughter moved out which left us with an empty nest. But that's been A-OK. It's given us lots more time to be cute and not worry about whether the kids had their rooms picked up, homework done, chores done, gone to bed on time, etc.
It does, however, suck that now we have to do all the house chores.
But the summer's done. And for all you "teachers-get-three-months-off" I would like to inform you that my contract officially started on August 9. And my last day before was May 25.
That's NOT three months. I'm not complaining about the time I do get off for the summer, but stop saying we get three months. It's not true.
I wish I had pictures to share. I actually took my camera with me everywhere, but always forgot to take pictures.
Sorry.
I wish I had updated this sooner. But I get home from school and am generally pooped nowadays.
'Tis the life of a super teacher.
Hopefully it won't be another month, but who knows. I have one last tri this weekend. I promise to take pictures.
Love to all you hangers-on.
Even though mother nature disagrees by forcing weeks on end of 90+ temps on us, my summer was over the first week of August.
I know. Why didn't I tell you sooner? Well, I've had this weird surge of "super-teacher" coming out of me since I started back at school. Maybe it's the weight loss, maybe it's that after 3-years of being in this district I feel like I know what I'm doing. Maybe I'm just over compensating for something else? Who knows.
I do know that I've got third graders sight reading music.
That's right, bitches. THIRD GRADERS. I rock.
But I must look back for a second.
This summer rocked all it's own. It rivals the summer of '98. And anyone who knows me knows that's saying a lot. I got to travel to California with my brother and reconnect (as much as one can when dealing with a person with dementia) with an estranged grandma. I got to visit with mom, help kids who have it worse off than I can imagine and visit an old friend named Joseph (and his FABULOUS coat.) Sure I got discriminated against by some good Christians who want to help kids with cancer, but that was just a growing experience.
And you just can't beat getting to play housewife. Going to ab class and then lunch with the ladies.
Plus, though I still call her Trainer Beth, she's really become Friend Beth. And I helped her move into the cutest cottage-style house any gay boy could wish for.
Oh, and don't forget the three triathlons. Well, four if you count the fake one Beth and I did just for fun my last weekend before school officially started.
Yes, I know. You have to be something of a masochist to run a fake triathlon... for fun. And I LOVED it. And then topping it off with a lovely dinner with Beth, her sister Leigh and her nicer-than-most husband.
The daughter moved out which left us with an empty nest. But that's been A-OK. It's given us lots more time to be cute and not worry about whether the kids had their rooms picked up, homework done, chores done, gone to bed on time, etc.
It does, however, suck that now we have to do all the house chores.
But the summer's done. And for all you "teachers-get-three-months-off" I would like to inform you that my contract officially started on August 9. And my last day before was May 25.
That's NOT three months. I'm not complaining about the time I do get off for the summer, but stop saying we get three months. It's not true.
I wish I had pictures to share. I actually took my camera with me everywhere, but always forgot to take pictures.
Sorry.
I wish I had updated this sooner. But I get home from school and am generally pooped nowadays.
'Tis the life of a super teacher.
Hopefully it won't be another month, but who knows. I have one last tri this weekend. I promise to take pictures.
Love to all you hangers-on.
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