Category: To Occupy my Time

Kid conversations: Alien Invasion

Trapped inside for yet another indoor recess this week I had the following conversation with some members of the K/1 class.

A group of boys was playing with pattern blocks and as I watched them I realized that one of them was talking about dropping a bomb.

“What’s your classroom rule about bombs?” I asked. The thing I love about the K/1 class is they will usually tell me what the rule is, even if it means they have to stop doing what they were doing.

“There’s no rule about bombs.” Owen assured me, most enthusiastically. However, he is one of the K/1’s who won’t necessarily tell me the whole truth. I waited to see what he would say next. “There is only a rule about guns. No guns.” He continued.

“Actually, “Alex put forth, “the rule is no weapons.”

“No weapons at all?” I asked.

“No.” a chorus of boys assured me.

“Well, a bomb is a weapon.” I told them. “If you have a rule about no weapons, then you can’t pretend to drop bombs.”

“What about missiles?” asked Thai, seeking a loophole. I told him that alas, missiles were weapons too.

“Spears!” Owen, the optimist, asked.

“Nope, also a weapon.”

“Well how are we supposed to play alien invasion if we can use weapons?” Owen, was a bit perturbed at this point.

“I guess you are just going to have to use peace, love and understanding,” I told them, “because you can’t use weapons.”

“Fuck your light and your bright jacket.”

The above was what was yelled at me tonight from a man in a car across Interstate Avenue while I was bicycling as fast as I could to yoga class. My first thought was, “was he making fun of me?” and my second was “was my light too bright in his eyes?” All in all, it seemed entirely unprovoked–I was on the completely opposite side of the street from him and there were Max tracks in between–and left me confused and unsettled.

This is my problem with communicating from cars while driving. Most of the time, I can only make out syllables a la adults on Peanuts. This man gets points for projection and clarity as I could understand every single word. Still. Not very nice.

Middle of the night story

Sometimes when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night I tell myself stories. I sort of liked how this one started, but will never actually finish it, so if you would like to make a story out of it, you may.

There once was an Amazon warrior. The woman in question didn’t realize she was an Amazon, there not being a huge demand for warriors, much less female warriors in modern American life, but she had in inkling. Though she was short (those old myths always exaggerate everything) she was strong and fierce and while not stunningly beautiful she had a nice smile and breasts small enough that they wouldn’t get in the way of a bowstring….

5 years of standard diary

In late 2004, I had lost interest in daily writing of my journal, which I had done pretty regularly since seventh grade. I didn’t miss daily journaling–my life seemed to have calmed down enough that I didn’t have to process so many things–but I did find myself thinking, “How did I spend last Memorial Day?” and “Did I make rolls last year for Thanksgiving?” I also needed a place to keep track of books read and movies watched.

I needed something to record daily life on a regular basis, but not in an excessive manner. I thought instantly of “My Dairy.” My Dairy was a small, red-bound book with a lock and a key and when you opened it, had a page for each day of the year. Each page was further divided into five sections of about four lines each, so that you could note things daily for five years. Small, compact, perfect. Exactly what I needed.

Could I find such thing? Nope. I found a few five-year diaries. But they weren’t quite right in some way or other. I didn’t really need a lock and key, or the years were already entered into the dairy pages, so that I would have to start a dairy part-way through its existence. None of them quite worked for me.

So, like any woman raised on a steady diet of books set on the frontier filled with spunky, make-do, clever women, I made my own five year dairy. I started by purchasing this standard dairy from an office supply store.
Before I bought it, I counted all the lines for each day to make sure that there were enough for five lines per day per year. There were. Then I simply wrote in the year, an initial for the day and drew a line under that. Voila! Five year diary.


After I finished the triathlon, I kept my race bib as a marker. It turns out race bibs make great markers. Bright, made of some plastic paper that doesn’t tear, just the right size.

The standard diary had extra pages which gave me ample room to keep track of books and movies. Most of the pre-made 5-year diaries didn’t have any extra pages.
I didn’t write in it every day, but most days. Friday and Saturday are notorious for not having anything written. Sometimes, if I miss a few days, I’ll jot a sentence or two as to what was going on. The fun really starts after the first year, when you can compare and contrast what was going on one (or two, three or four) year(s) previous. It’s also fun because you can email your friends with things like: Did you know that two years and three days ago we were celebrating your un-bachlorette party? Your friends will be astonished and amazed at your powers of memory.

I’m so happy with how this turned out, I’ve gotten myself another standard diary for 2010 and will begin the process over again. Look for another post at the beginning of 2015.

Resolution 2010.

I’ve read, and observed in my own life, that the interest in sewing skips a generation. My grandmother was an excellent seamstress. My mother tried, but I can still picture her exhaling sharply as she set out to rip another mis-sewn seam. She once made me a pair of pants for Christmas. Suspecting that something wasn’t right, we agreed that I would wear a blindfold and try them on. She laughed when they didn’t fit, and I took off my blindfold and laughed too.

My sewing talents don’t approach my grandmothers, and I’m in a “not sewing” holding pattern, but my homemaking gene is strong.

Similarly, my resolutions seem to go in an every-other-year success rate. In 2008, I resolved to write a letter per day and before burning out completely in late November, pretty much kept to that. Last year, I pledged to stop eating while standing. On the surface, a much easier task to fulfill, but I failed miserably at it.

With the every other year success rate, this year looks good for resolutions. At the New Year’s Eve party I attended last night my resolution was greeted with raspberries, general jeers and calls of “boring!” But I’m pretty excited about it.

Resolved: in 2010, I will spend 15 minutes per day working at my desk. In priority order my tasks will be: checkbooks, in box, blogs.

All three of those things are not really in my control. My checkbooks/money management system is admittedly a labyrinth process that could perhaps be streamlined. But I like the way I have set up its many processes, and checks and balances. When it is caught up, it gives me a sense of security.

It is rarely caught up. When I attack the to-do list monthly, it takes two or three hours and causes much shallow breathing and sighing. I also have a vague sense of unease throughout the month that I could bounce a check at any time. When I neglect the money management for more than a couple months, it takes the better part of a day to dig myself out. After the move, I didn’t catch things up for about six months and spent eight hours setting things right. A bit of daily attention would prevent this, and the resolution is designed to do just that.

My inbox is a sorry mess. I caught a reference to it in a previous blog post mentioning something about it’s geologic layers. I think I had it down to one object a few Christmases ago, but that was it. I would love to clear out that sucker, and now that my checkbooks are caught up, and presumably easy to maintain, I aim to do just that.
And oh, the blogs. In my mind, I work on them all the time. One of my friends lists my blog on her site. The listing also notes the last posting. I remember the first time I saw that my last posting on the list was three or four months old. I was surprised, then realized that just because I think about the blog daily, doesn’t mean that things are published. The thing I didn’t realize is that there are so many steps. Taking pictures, prepping pictures, making the blog post, writing it, letting it rest, editing it, editing it again, actually posting it. And I have so many damn interests. All those steps just don’t get done very often. It’s disheartening.

I don’t expect the blogs to get much better any time soon, for right now the money and the inbox promise to eat up that fifteen minutes. But perhaps the blog will move along a bit.

As for implementation, I have printed up calendars for the year and posted them on the door to the office. Each day I do my fifteen minutes, I will make a check mark of some kind on the day. I plan to prioritize this task and do it as soon as I come home from work, or first thing in the morning on non-work days.

Wish me luck.

Poem for December: Now Winter Nights Enlarge.

Now Winter Nights Enlarge
Thomas Campion

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine,
Let well-turned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

After the glum “I hate winter” poem of November, I chose this poem because it captures what I like about winter. The lines “Let now, the chimney’s blaze/and cups o’erflow with wine” is delightful.

Like November’s poem, the old-fashioned language made this a bit tricky to memorize, but it wasn’t very difficult.

Positive!

I’ve not been feeling well. It’s a busy time of year at school–although when is it not–and I’ve been feeling run down and my throat hurts. Strep is going around school. But I’ve googled all the symptoms and everything says that adults don’t get strep. Still, I’m not feeling well. I call the doctor and the nurse orders a strep test for me. At Nurse treatment, she tells me that while adults often get sore throats and infections, it most likely is not strep. I tell her I know. I walk the culture over to the lab and wait 30 minutes. I’ve got a limited amount of time because I have to take my Calculus final soon. The technician calls my name, “Patricia Collins?” I approach him. “Are you Patricia Collins?” he asks as he holds shut a pink piece of paper. I affirm that I am. He opens the paper to reveal that my test came back…
“Really?” I gasp. I feel like I won the lottery. “But adults rarely get strep throat!” I tell him, repeating what two nurses and the internet have told me.

“Well, you’ve got it.” he assures me. Still feeling like I won the lottery (I was right! It was totally worth it to miss the December fire drill to get a strep test! I will soon feel better!) I make my way to the pharmacy, get the drugs required and run to catch my train making it to class just in time for my final.