Crazy Track Lady Weight Loss Tip #1

July 25, 2010

Okay, so I have received my first comment from a fellow blogger who is looking for a weight loss support buddy or two. Terrific! I have someone else to help me keep accountable!

Today’s weight loss tip: substitute artificial sweetener (such as aspartame or Splenda) with a substance called “Stevia”. Sold in a variety of packages (packets, included), it is a natural sweetener that comes from the Stevia plant, and has been in use for over 400 years in Japan, the middle east, etc. It is actually 300-400 times sweeter than regular sugar, so use it sparingly. I am gastronomically sensitive to artificial sweeteners, so when I tried this, I was waiting for the side effects. I drink several large glasses of water a day, but can’t stand the lack of taste. I tried TruLemon, which worked great, until the high level of citric acid gave me a raging case of heart burn. So I turned to lemon wedges and Stevia. Absolutely delicious! One or two triangle wedges, two Stevia packets and a cup full of ice makes for a great substitute for a glass of pop (or soda, depending on the area of the country you live in).

Got a safe weight loss tip to share? Send me a comment!

CTL

Diary of a Crazy Track Lady 7-24-10

July 24, 2010

Well, it’s been 20 days (more or less) since you’ve decided to revamp your eating and exercising routine. I must admit, I had my doubts about it at first. But, I see you are serious this time and are doing everything you can to keep yourself on track to a new you. Okay, so you back slid a little bit last weekend. That’s okay, it was a wedding after all and it would have been rude to the guests of honor to not eat and drink alcohol, right? (Yep, keep telling yourself that).

Actually, I want to let you in on a little secret…it is OK to drink alcohol and eat crap food every now and then, AS LONG AS YOU DO IT IN MODERATION! Take only a handful of chips, put the bag back in the pantry, and savor the few you have in your hand. If you’re still hungry for something salty, eat a pickle spear. You’re not craving the JUNK, you’re craving the SALT!If you want a sweet treat, have a small piece of chocolate (which is good for the heart) slowwwwwly. It tastes so much better that way and it will keep you from wanting to eat the whole package.

As for the alcohol…watch the intake with that. It’s nothing but sugar. And, with the cran juice, the calories just add up quickly. It was very wise of you to stop your daily nightcaps, but don’t deny yourself the chance to have a drink or two on the weekends. Again, everything in moderation, right?

Guess what? You HAVE lost some weight! I know you didn’t step on the scale at the beginning of this “new you” phase, but everything has begun to feel a little looser. The Duff Beer shorts no longer pinch your waist. That’s a great sign, ya know? And by the way, the number on the scale is  not to be obsessed over — so don’t start weighing yourself all the time. What’s important is the way you feel about yourself, and how much healthier you can become by eating the foods your body needs. not what you want.

Speaking of which, have you made the connection that eating healthier foods has stopped the cravings? Yep, that’s the secret. Smaller portions, throughout the day, keeps the hunger pains at bay. In fact, you’re really not craving anything, ever, because you’re always eating!

Who knew it was this easy? Okay, so you knew it a couple years ago. And you stopped eating well. Well, look what happened. Okay, okay, I won’t beat you up over it, but I want you to continue doing what you’re doing because you’ve learned something valuable here. Don’t lose the lesson again, okay?

Love,

Future Self

Diary of a Crazy Track Lady 7-10-10

Hi there, lady! I am so happy to see you again. I just wanted to take a moment to say “YAY, YOU!” for your excellent work this past week. I am glad we’ve both decided to get back on track with exercising and eating healthier.  It hasn’t been too bad, eh?

I like how we’re starting to feel….again. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a chance to experience the endorphin rush, hasn’t it? Wow, how I have missed that post-aerobo-dogging calmness! I am sooooo glad we started that up again. And best of all, it’s FREE! Okay, so the idea of joining a fitness program and working out sounds wonderful, but why spend the money when we can use our neighborhood as our gym? The economy is tight enough as is, and we’re already stretched beyond our means. So, back to strapping the harness on your BEST PERSONAL TRAINER EVER, and away we can go –out to dance, sing, jog and fret about like the “crazy track lady” you’ve become. TAKE THAT, fancy health clubs!

Keep up the great work. I’ll be checking back in on you to make sure you’re remaining focused and inspired. Remember, two and a half years ago how HOT you looked? Well, we can and will get back there again. I’m in charge now, and I am NOT going to sit back and watch you fail again!

I’ll see you in a few days. And remember, I am here for you.

Love,

Future Hot Self

Psychic Income

Well, another school year of trying to influence the lives of the 11-13 year old set is about to end. My second year of teaching — first year as a full-time teacher. How do I feel? Exhausted, drained, spent, and surprisingly enough, exhilarated. I just had another of my “psychic income” moments, and this year, my psychic piggy bank is more than half full.

After cruising through life unfulfilled, I decided to go back to school and embrace my DNA. When I was in teaching school, my supervisor said something to me during one of our meetings that really caught me off guard: “You’re going to be an amazing teacher.” I wasn’t sure how to respond without coming across as an egotistical bitch, so I quietly changed the subject. But inside, I was furiously nodding my head and saying “DAMN STRAIGHT I AM — MY MOM IS WATCHING.”

I’m a fourth-generation teacher, and it’s a title I wear proudly. When anyone asks me what I do for a living, I hold my head up high, smile broadly and say: “I am a TEACHER. I teach language arts to MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENTS.”  I’m always amazed at how many people respond with: “You poor thing, middle school.” I’ll tell you, I’d take hormonal middle-school students over snot-filled, leaky primary students any day. Kids in grades K-5 don’t understand my dark sense of humor. I make them cry (not intentionally, however!)

My first year of teaching, I had to learn how to survive in an environment where I was bullied by grown ups who hadn’t really grown up yet — most of them younger than I am. I not only had to learn how to teach, but learn how to maneuver my way around a school filled with cliquish staff members who banded together to make other people’s lives (usually the ones who aren’t willing to play such immature games like these — i.e., me) miserable.  Fortunately, I quickly won the support of my students, their parents, and a principal — the only three groups of people I really need to impress anyways.

Some might wonder why I stayed at a school where I was bullied by staff. It’s simple — teaching jobs are tough to get, and my co-worker and I are so much alike, we were even dressed exactly the same when I interviewed for the position, as she told me after she insisted to the principal that I get hired immediately or “she’s walking”.  And, since God answered my prayers for a teaching job within 45-minutes of sending it up, I decided I owed Him one in return.

I digress. What I really want to say about teaching is this: “Teaching pays me in ways no amount of money ever could.” Oh sure, if someone offered me a high salary, I certainly wouldn’t thumb my nose at it. But, the money isn’t the issue — it’s the “psychic income” that comes from the relationships I’ve developed with some of my students and their parents.

I had one student last year (and again this year) who couldn’t write a full paragraph for me at the start of the year. His words were all over the page, and he wouldn’t capitalize or punctuate in the right places. Many teachers had him pegged as “odd” or “lazy,” I saw him as brilliant and untethered.

I worked with him all last year, slowly encouraging him to write more and more. When he came back to me this year, his writing exploded off the page. I couldn’t get him to stop writing, even when it was time to switch to reading, or vocabulary, or whatever else I had to teach. His stories had characters, intricate plots, development, structure, creativity! His grammar and punctuation were near perfect. His poetry was filled with the full spectrum of emotions. And most importantly, he worked with me and he thanked me — for being his teacher and showing him the joys of writing and poetry. Ka-chink.

This year, I had two students who made deposits in my piggy bank. One boy, who I suspect has dyslexia (yet undiagnosed), can now write clear sentences most of the time. He stops, takes the time to write carefully, and doesn’t slop his words onto the page anymore. The other boy, who I suspect has Asperger’s (working in a private school, there isn’t a high number of Special Ed students with definitive diagnoses to warrant services), has been struggling to write coherent thoughts all year long. His first writings were totally incomprehensible. I couldn’t even tell what shape the letters were supposed to be, much less what they were trying to say. These were my “project” students — two students I decided needed extra encouragement and help.

The first boy, the one with suspected dyslexia (I’m not an expert, just going on a hunch here), has been a poor speller and writer since kindergarten. So says the Special Ed teacher providing services to him (I use that term “loosely”, because I think he’s just feeding him answers, not assistance). When I saw the boy’s handwriting, I asked if there were anything I could do to help him improve. I was told “That’s the best you’ll ever get out of him. Trust me, I’ve been working with him since kindergarten, and he’s never gotten any better.” Well, of course that was the moment when I decided no teacher was ever going to tell me to give up on a student, so I said “We’ll see..” and grumbled off. A month or so later, it gave me great pleasure to walk up to that teacher, show him a thank you letter written by this student (without a single misspelling or grammatical error) and sneer “Told you, I’d get him to write.” Bitchy of me? Yes. But that teacher deserved to be taken down a notch. Ka-chink.

The other boy, the one suspected of having Asperger’s, continues to struggle with writing. But, something wonderful happened today. I made his mom cry. Why? Because I think she finally has an answer to her son’s situation — I sent her a link about the struggles Asperger’s students have with writing. She read the link and was so overwhelmed at how similar the post sounded to her own son, she started to cry and had to stop reading further until she could get herself back together again. All this time, she had been thinking herself  as crazy, because she knew something was “odd” but couldn’t figure out what.

I have had many moments this year where I heard the coins drop into my piggy bank:

Having an entire class tell you that “You’re the only teacher here who likes us, Mrs. B”

and, when I gave a breath mint to everyone “I LOVE YOU, Mrs. B, you’re the BEST!”

and just recently, “Wow, we’ve never had the chance to read for an entire class period! Can we do that again, Mrs. B?”

Ka-chink! That’s the sound of psychic coins plinking into my piggy bank. And I love that sound.

Language and Television Shows

Language fascinates me. Vernacular too. But what really fascinates me is the way “acceptable” language on television has changed over the last 25-30 years. Sitting down one night a week or so ago to watch an episode of the 1970’s TV hit “All in the Family”, it suddenly dawned on me: the censors have lost their grip on reality and sensibility.

The main character in “All in the Family”, Archie Bunker, was portrayed as a racist, bigoted, hate mongering, stereotypical buffoon. He was an EOO – Equal Opportunity Offender — spewing bigoted comments towards all minorities with equal aplomb. No minority, race or religion was granted immunity from his misguided and often misdirected hate: Jews, Blacks, Hispanics, Catholics, Polish, the list goes on forever.

The following are some (but not all) of the terms Archie would often use to “describe” various minorities:

Kikes (Blacks)

Pollacks (Polish)

Mics (Irish Catholics)

Heebs (Jews)

Spades (Blacks)

3As and 3Bs (Hispanic Mexicans and Puerto Ricans)

Jungle Bunnies (Blacks)

(you get the hint, right?)

But, therein lies the problem with today’s censors. I’m not condoning the use of any of the above terms, but don’t they seem a little less “offensive” than, perhaps, some of the language that is allowed to pass through the censors today? Isn’t it entirely possible to picture a “Jungle Bunny” as a furry, cuddly rabbit hopping around a tropical forest somewhere, searching for fresh fern leaves to nibble? And isn’t the word “spade” just another word for a garden tool? “3As and 3Bs” is as innocuous a scientific classification as possible, so what’s wrong with using those to describe someone?

Nowadays, it seems like everyone on TV can swear all they want. I find it ironic that censors will let “ass” slide through, but bleep out “hole”, so it comes across as “ASS(bleep!)”  And for reasons no one has seemed to be able to explain to me, it is now perfectly acceptable to say G-ddamn. I know every time I say that, I look for lightning bolts to suddenly appear.

The ironic beauty of the language used in  “All in the Family” cannot be overlooked. Despite the racist overtones, offensive stereotyping and political incorrectness, Archie never did utter a single “curse” word. Yet, if today’s scripts ever used any of the same terms he used, there would be organized marches going on across America within ten minutes of hearing those words spoken over the airwaves. But, “reality TV” censors don’t want to run the risk of “offending” anyone.

And G-ddamn it, ass(bleep!)s like that really piss me off.

Role Models Come in All Sizes

I was fully prepared for the accolades I would receive from teaching. I was well on my way towards patting myself on the back and crowing “What a GREAT teacher you are, Nerd!” while blowing smoke up my own backside. Two years of teaching almost behind me, and so far, everything I’ve done has been met with praise and glory and…blah, blah, blah. Enough of that–here’s the reality of working with children — they are great equalizers when it comes to feelings of self-importance.

Nothing deflates an over-sized ego faster than dealing with the untimely death of a child. No, not my own child — I wouldn’t be writing this post with such reckless flippancy. Besides, if it were my 13- year old child who just succumbed to complications from his 6-year battle with leukemia, I’d be on the way to the nearest psych ward, hoping for a voluntary psychiatric hold.

But today, as I write this, there is a family here who is losing their child to the battle. Most likely, right this very minute they are gathering at his bedside, holding his hands, and praying one last time as a cohesive, family unit. Then, his younger sisters will leave as they see their brother alive for the very last time. And this is what is tearing me apart.

I met this family last year, when I was his teacher. Despite weekly chemo treatments, horrible side effects and general feelings of “ick”, he still managed to earn straight As and complete all his work at home. His parents insisted he maintain as “normal” a life as possible — going to school, doing his homework, taking his tests on schedule, etc., etc. His chemo treatments were always scheduled on Friday, so he’d have the weekend to catch up on homework (between bouts of nausea, I bet).  I could tell where he was in his treatments based upon the amount of red fuzz he had on his head — the less hair, the more dosage of chemo he would have in him. But, never, ever, did he lose ground in my class. His parents insisted upon it, and he made it happen.

He moved onto eighth grade this year, so I lost him as a student. But, his little sister took his place at a desk in my 6th grade room this year. And, much like he was, she never lets her brother’s health situation get in the way of her schooling. Every day she comes to class, ready, eager and willing to participate. She eagerly reads out loud, answers questions about grammar, bops up to be the first person to share her writings — everything that happens in my class room, she embraces enthusiastically and with such focus and attention. All the while knowing when she goes home at the end of the day, her parents will be at the hospital, hoping for a miracle for her older brother.

I’ve always known the world needs positive role models. I get so disgusted when I hear that people with questionable morals and values are being idolized in the press and put on pedestals for the world to “ooh” and “aw” over, when all they’ve really done is just figure out a way to act obnoxious and foolish and get away with it.

They aren’t role models to me. The role models — the ones who deserve to be placed on a pedestal, are the ones like the family I’ve met, who are going to be burying their 13-year old son and brother shortly. Through this horrific battle, they have remained close, strong in their faith and stoic in their deeds.

They are my role models. They have taught me more than I could ever teach them. What a great way to keep my ego in check.

Goodbye, Seth.

MPD and My Muse…An introduction

Well, this is fascinating. My muse has recently been diagnosed with a new disorder. It seems she has a “slight” case of MPD – Multiple Personality Disorder. This could explain her wildly fluctuating behavior and speech patterns. I’ve suspected something for a little while, but going back through the transcripts of previous conversations, I realize now I was talking to several different “people” –sometimes all at once. I was finally able to connect the dots when, out of the blue, “Trudy” actually took the Marlboro ciggy out of her mouth and popped in a wad of Double Bubble bubble gum — a signal that something was up.  Of course, Trudy was still being as belligerent and orny as ever — between bubbles, she was muttering such semi-incoherent phrases as “Peach cobbler, bitch!” and “Kiss my ass, state trooper boy”.  No reason for such rude behavior, honestly. I’ve tried to talk with Trudy and tell her how inappropriate her comments can be at times, but last time I did it, she threatened to “put my black belt to the test”. Since she carries a switchblade and a 9 mm in the cab of her semi, I declined her invitation to an ass-kicking and spent most of the next half hour “talking her down” from whatever menopausal moment she was having.

But the bubble gum — so out of character for her. That’s when it hit me — that wasn’t Trudy. Gone was the 5’2″, 150 lb lesbian truck driver with the smoker’s cough, missing upper teeth, leathered skin and thinning gray hair. Sure, she was still dressed in her typical trucker uniform – red flannel shirt over a “wifebeater” T, dirty jeans and loggerhead boots, but that wasn’t the Trudy I knew and admired for her open honesty and willingness to put me in my proper place. Oh no, this person in front of me was much, much younger. I had to get a good look at her.

I say “her” because honestly, men don’t chew and snap their gum that way. Maybe the person who stole Trudy’s spotlight is gay — I don’t know and really don’t care.  That’s between them. I’m just here for the entertainment factor anyways. But still, something told me this new character was a lot younger, and definitely less “street smart” as Trudy. I sense a naivete that can only be matched by the stupidity of youth. So, I am going to go out on a limb and say I was talking to a 17 year old cheerleader. Some of the clues? Well, the constant gum chewing — like watching a cow standing in the field, vapidly staring at the barn, chewing its cud. And the hair twirling — annoying as hell. The constant twirling of the index finger around the pony tail. Leave your hair alone, dammit!

But the final clue? Every other word out of this one’s mouth was either “like” or “whatever”. I hate having to spend a moment of my time listening to my beloved language get slaughtered. I try to keep our conversations short. On the other hand, it is fun to mess with youth. I can tell her practically anything, and she’ll believe it. Or at least crinkle her cute little button nose, lean her head to the side and in her high pitched, annoyingly nasaly voice, giggle “Oh my god, that’s so, like, funny!” She does like to hang on every word of mine. She also likes to hang on every high school football player too. I see a teenage pregnancy in her future if she doesn’t pull her shit together soon and stop acting like such a slut. I’ve checked her Facebook and MySpace sites, and she’s gathering a long list of “friends”, most of whom probably aren’t aware she’s still underage. Someone’s going to get in real trouble if they don’t watch out. Honestly, my “mother-daughter muse” talks we’ve had seem to go over her head. This whole “I’m immortal” thing is being wasted on her youth, I have decided.

There is one other personality I’ve had the pleasure to meet who is by far my running favorite. Oh for the days in my twenties when I was still willing to meet the world head on and tackle life’s mysteries! She’s a real go-getter this one. She’s everything I never was, which is why I love her so much. She’s twenty-something (somewhere between 22-25) and just does what she wants, to hell with the circumstances. She spent some time over in Italy with the entire national soccer team. She won’t tell me “exactly” what happened – but I sense a few unconventional sex practices took place. She and her sister muse — Erato– probably found a supply of Mazola, whipped cream, feathers and satin laced handcuffs and had themselves a party. I bet she never asked for names. I also heard she’s engaged to a Croat named Jakob, but that relationship is probably doomed. She’s a bit of gold digger, and continues to find a long list of men to supply her with all the latest gidgets and gadgets to keep her on her eventual path to self-destruction. Of course it doesn’t hurt to have a model’s face on a perfect body devoid of wrinkles and the after-effects of childbirth and age-related gravity. She’s happy to tell everyone that “her boobs still point to Orion” (She’s Greek, so of course she had to get that shout out in there). Even though I love her, she does need to get her ego in check. There will always be someone coming up behind her who is prettier, thinner and more desirable. She just doesn’t know it yet. Ahh, youth.

That’s it for roll call. I continue to have conversations with my muse (now “muses”) and some days, I’ll find myself having to change my own behavior based on who decides to show up. Honestly, I like the mystery of it all. It’s so, like, awesome. Unless, of course, the Sandman shows up. He’s kind of a douche bag towards me. I bet he and John Gosselin are friends.

God’s Quilt

He sweeps the sky clear
dropping white cotton balls
over an azure colored backdrop.

He caresses the leaves,
with his feather-bristled paint brush
tickling each one a little at a time
until they burst into gales
of blushing reds, burnt oranges,
and stoic maroons.

He whispers to them silently,

“It is time–young children
To shed your overcoats
Throw down your defenses
and sturdy yourself –
all your limbs askew,
all your trunks exposed,
all your footing solid,
for Father Winter is coming soon.”

BEST ANIMAL REVENGE STORY EVER

http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/europe/10/23/russia.skating.bear.death/index.html

I wonder what size ice skate the bear would need? Size 26 WWW?

Random Thoughts From the Nerd

I want to know what dogs are thinking, but not smelling. I don’t want to have to work that hard or experience that much.

Cats are impossible to read. They need an interpreter – perhaps a chinchilla?

I really don’t want to know how swine flu went from swine to human. Or for that matter, how ebola went from monkey to human. Regardless, someone was acting inappropriately in both situations.

Is it possible to freeze electricity?

There HAS to be a speed of dark. I just feel it. I’d be shocked if there weren’t.

Nothing smells better in a house than a batch of snickerdoodles fresh from the oven.

Any word that has “oodle” in it is fun to say.

The best punctuation mark in the world? The umlaut. Not just fun to use, but fun to say. Try it, you’ll agree.

Ask the Amish if they use hybrids. They’ll probably say, “Yes, I own a mule.” Great tie in with biology.

If Edgar Allan Poe were alive today, I would want to be his Facebook friend. Only.

People who think the world cares about them, but we really don’t:

• Heidi and Spencer Pratt
• Jon Gosselin
• Paris Hilton
• Tila Tequila
• Balloon boy dad

People who will some day get their asses kicked by an assorted group of fed-up middle class and lower class folks:

• Same folks

If we can put a man on the moon, why can’t anyone create chocolate covered potato chips? Two PMS problems solved at once.

The Sexiest Men in the World Live in My Area

I used to think firemen were the sexiest men on the planet. Well, that was before my area got an NHL team.

I’m often surprised by the lack of positive publicity this sport receives. I’ve written about it on my blog, so I won’t rehash my thoughts here. But, I want to add another element I didn’t mention before:

Hockey players are the sexiest men on the planet. I should probably qualify that with “my” definition of sexy: a man who is strong, brave and tough when needed, but soft, gentle, and caring all the other times. That is not just sexy, that’s intoxicating.

Last summer, when I was involved in my writer’s workshop, I had to write about someone or something in the community that was actively working towards change. I immediately thought of our local NHL team. Why? Because I know the back story of these guys. I know the team captain anonymously sends large sums of money to organizations–just because–and expects no press attention in return. Last year, he gave almost $150,000 of his own money for various causes in and around this area. And, by the way, he also visits sick children in the hospital on a regular basis.

The players make regular stops at schools and libraries to stress the benefits of education (something close to my heart, being a teacher). The team has built a safe playground for children, donating the supplies and man hours. The organization has re-opened one of the local after-school program buildings that had to shut down due to lack of public funds. Everything they do, they do because they want to, not because they are contractually obligated.

And the real tear-jerker…

The NHL’s motto is  “Hockey Fights Cancer”. Last year, one of our local high school hockey players was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Upon hearing this, the team offered the young man a contract — a legit one — to become a “Blue Jacket” for a day. They even paid him a small salary ($1.00) and gave him an official team jersey with his name on the back. Team players would go to his house (or his hospital room) and sit by his side while they watched the other NHL teams play.

Unfortunately, Ryan succumbed to his cancer in May of this year. His last wish? To make it to at least one playoff game before he passed away. The team made sure he got his wish.

Last night’s game was our team’s chance to raise money to fight cancer. The team had this young man’s jersey displayed on the player’s bench, in tribute to his memory. When one of the players scored the first goal of last night’s game, his response to the interviewer went something like this “I just had a feeling I was going to score. I’m not a huge fan of a ‘higher power’, but I think Ryan had something to do with it…” Wow. Talk about a sense of humility and compassion.

So, I apologize to all the sexy, heroic firefighters out there who risk their lives every day to save the lives of others. You are still very much heroes in my eyes. But, in my opinion, you have some pretty stiff competition when it comes to the true definition of  “sexy”.

Puckin’ Nuts

I was never a big fan of college or professional sports. My dad and mom preferred the nightly news to the Stanley Cup playoffs, “The Carol Burnett Show” to the Super Bowl. There were no Sunday dinners planned around “game time”, no “football pools at my dad’s work”, not even a sibling or two who participated in school sports. We were the “pseudo-intellectual family of nerds” who would sit around the dining room table playing cut-throat games of Scrabble, “Fictionary”, or Boggle.

I know the exact moment, however, when it all changed. It was my first date with the man who would become my husband. Unlike our family, he was a sports junkie. His two favorite sports were ice hockey and college football – in that particular order. After what has come to be known as our first “hot date” (a story best saved for later), we moseyed over to the Chicago Stadium – home of the Chicago Bulls and the Chicago Blackhawks. That night, my future husband would introduce me to the sport of ice hockey. Little did I realize at that time how influential or profound an impact that would have on my adult life.

I didn’t know a thing about the sport – and honestly didn’t really care at the time – I was on a date with a cute guy I was crazy about. I could have spent the evening sipping Coke and eating sliders from White Castle and had been perfectly content. But, as I sat there in the stadium, listening to the crowd’s collective voices bloom as the national anthem was sung, something began to stir inside me. The sound of the crowd was cacophonous – decibels louder than anything I had ever heard. It became obvious something magical was going to occur.

The teams made their way from their locker rooms and out onto the ice to the sound of the crowd’s roar. Glass panels undulated as the fans pounded on them again, and again. The concrete flooring in the stands pulsed to life as the audience stomped their collective feet in thunderous approval.  All because of the six gladiators squaring off at center ice.

The crowd went silent, the organist stopped, and the puck fell. A mad scramble began to gain control of the puck and begin the dance towards the opponents’ goals. Metal blades shredded the fresh, slick, shiny surface of ice – and at each shift of the player’s weight, snow cones sprayed the air and spread like Japanese fans. I watched in awe – and wondered how a fully grown man could shift his well-muscled body and fifteen pounds of protective gear all the while standing on 1/8^th an inch of finely sharpened steel, and manipulating a frozen, rubber disk with a long, wooden stick. I was witnessing true athleticism, and it was intoxicating.

When the first fight broke out around the goalie’s net, I wasn’t sure how to interpret it. I wondered, “Isn’t anyone gonna stop this?” but my then-boyfriend leaned over and nudged me knowingly, adding “Eh, the official will stop it when one of ‘em falls down. That’s just part of the sport.”

Hockey continued to permeate my life, making another appearance when our son was eighteen months old. My husband and I, being native Chicagoans, would talk about how we used to remember Chicago winters cold enough to skate outdoors. We shared our favorite skating rinks – the ones where the frozen pond was smooth, instead of rippled by the wind. We talked about “warming houses” and “cold benches” and how the snow would inch its way down our skates, freezing our feet until we could no longer feel them inside our now frozen-solid skate boots. We spoke of lips that turned blue from being exposed to the bitter cold far too long, rosy, wind-nipped cheeks, and how we knew it was time to go home when the floodlights came on.

Shortly after moving to Columbus, Ohio, it just so happened there was an indoor ice rink within a thirty-minute drive from home. Of course, we had to go over and check it out. We bundled our son up, put him in his car seat and headed over to the rink. I remember the smell – fresh paint over concrete walls. It smelled “untouched” and “unspoiled”. Even the cold air smelled appealing. We paid our admission, rented skates – torture devices for those with bad feet – and tucked our son into his first pair of hockey skates. Being eighteen months old, he stood up, toppled over, then burst into gales of tears – screaming, “No! No! No!” loud enough for everyone to hear. Undeterred, my husband picked him up in his arms and lugged him over to the fresh sheet of ice, our son kicking and bucking the entire time.

At first, it was a difficult concept for our son to accept. Hunched over, spine nearly snapping, my husband stood behind our son and inched forward slowly, stopping only to reposition our son’s tiny feet so he wouldn’t collapse under himself.  After what seemed like an hour, they made one complete revolution around the rink and met me back at the starting position. I asked, “How’d it go?” and looked down at our son. He was not impressed. Determined to try again another day, my husband and I left shortly thereafter – all the while telling our son “What a great job you did! We’ll try again another time, okay?” We were going to have a son who played hockey, regardless of what it took.

The light bulb moment came when we purchased our son his first pair of rollerblades. They were cheap, plastic, blue, Little Tykes roller skates that snapped on over his shoes. The Velcro strap held them closed, and they were extendable. Removing the fear of the ice, we would spend hours outside trailing behind him as he shuffled his little feet down the sidewalk outside our house. At first, he would stand stock straight – knees locked out of fear of falling, and move forward in a herky-jerky motion, much like a newborn colt learning to walk shortly after its birth. But soon enough, he began to glide – slowly and surely over the concrete sidewalk, bending his little body while he found his center of balance.

By age three, he was ready to give ice skating another chance. At age four, we signed him up at the local ice rink, purchased his very own hockey skates (size 1, I believe), and let him go. We weren’t aware that, during his skating lessons, he was being “scouted” for the new youth hockey league opening up at that rink. When we signed him up, he was just entering kindergarten. I’ll never forget that first year, because we received a letter from his elementary school physical education teacher talking about the importance of “physical activity” and “major muscle coordination”. The teacher was encouraging us to work with our son on hops, skips and jumps. I can only imagine the look on this teacher’s face when we wrote back that our son was “working on his hand/eye coordination while skating several times a week, manipulating a rubber disk over frozen ice by way of a long, thin, wooden stick.”

We have been personally involved with ice hockey ever since. My husband coached our son from age five until age fourteen – until he was no longer certified to teach that age level. I was the official “team mom”. Rarely did I miss a game – even the ones that would begin at 6 am. I’ve often said there are only two things that would get me up and out of the house at 5 am on a cold winter’s day – a house fire and a hockey game.

That same toddler who was scared to death of the skates, and the ice, is now sixteen and playing for his high school’s hockey team. He eats, breathes and sleeps hockey. Thankfully, we’ve never had to watch him fight another player on the ice, or get bloodied and battered himself. We’ve steeled ourselves against the inevitable – hockey is a sport of blood, sweat and tears. And of course, we still watch the game on television, but we no longer root for the Chicago Blackhawks. We’re Columbus Blue Jackets fans now – we’ve earned that title through honest means.

Relentless

He sits.
He watches my every move.
He never speaks.
He drills his eyes
into the back of my head.
He fills my peripheral vision
He is an all-consuming presence
in my life.

I sit.
I see him there.
I do not talk to him.
I glare in his direction
I try to make him avert his eyes.
I am weakened by his will.

Click! He pulls the trigger.
Back and forth it goes.

Yes, now…

No.

Yes, NOW!

No!

Until I cave in.
And give him what he wants.

Such is the life of a woman.

completely smitten
with her dog.

Reconnecting with the Past

I dedicate this post to a friend from my past — if you’ve followed my url, you’ll know who you are.

I turned 45 last Friday, yet I don’t feel 45. Sure, I feel older — bones creak more, gravity has taken its toll, and now with “the change” coming, I find myself weeping during commercials with puppies in them. Why? I don’t know, it just seems like something I should do without feeling embarrassed by it. Getting older is like old people and farts — these things happen, sometimes when you aren’t even looking.

But, I want to specifically dedicate THIS post to my past. To a “certain person” I met years ago (almost 19 now, wow) who was no doubt one of the funniest men I have ever met. He knows who he is.

It’s weird how we’ve managed to reconnect. A few nights ago, and for reasons still unknown to me, I dreamt about him. I dreamt he was working in an on-the-road traveling comedy troupe, and I saw him one night up on stage. (If you knew the guy, you’d say “Yep, that’s where he needs to be”)  I shouted “Hey! I know that dude!” and tried to get his attention, but he just ignored me, called security and went on his merry way — by riding in the back of a truck that delivers new cars to dealerships. (Hey, it’s MY dream, I can’t explain it — these dreams just “happen”). But I woke up from that dream thinking two things: “WTF?” followed quickly by the infamous “I wonder if he’s on Facebook…?”

(Oh yea — about Facebook. I wrote about that networking site a few months ago. Well, I’m not feeling so high school “uncool” anymore over there. After whining about my lack of being included at “the cool kids table”, I got enough people to validate my existence that I don’t feel so “climb the clock tower”ish anymore. So, I’ve decided to hang around there a little while longer.)

I’m glad I did too. After this completely random, incongruent, and inexplicable dream I had, I logged onto Facebook, did a quick search and — holy highballs! He’s on there! Wow. What a moment of serendipity for me. And, he hasn’t changed a bit. At least not from what I can tell.

He and I share a tiny bit of history that still makes me laugh out loud whenever I think about it. Noooo, not THAT kind of history. Sheesh. I’ve often used this particular moment in our history as a great attention-getter in class. I start with the line: “Wanna hear about the time I smuggled something illegally into the country?” Nothing quiets a class of middle school students down faster than hearing their Cheez Whiz and Wonderbread of a teacher say the words “smuggle” and “illegally” in the same sentence. (Of COURSE we do, Mrs. B, we’d be idiots not to get the goods on our teacher to use at a later date!)

Of course the REAL story to my smuggling is way different than what transpires in the under-developed, nefarious minds of the young adolescent, but it makes for great story telling. Especially when I include what might possibly be the funniest, gut-busting line of all times ever uttered by any human: “I know this might sound gross, but how big is your anus?”

Wow. Almost 19 years later, and I’m STILL laughing about this. That’s some heavy duty comedy fire power.

Thanks, Dan, for making me laugh after all these years. I’m so glad we’ve reconnected.

Conversations with My Muse: The Editing Process

Arrrrrrgh! I can’t do this!!!!

Whoa, whoa, whoa, girl. what is going on here?

Oh. Hey muse, didn’t notice you sitting there.

I was flying over on my way to California and heard you muttering to yourself.

California? What’s going on there?

Eh, got something brewing in Hollywood.

Going all “Hollyweird” on me now?

Not sure. They want me to help with a new reality TV show idea.

That would be?

I dunno, something about “dads” and “divorce”? No clue.

Oh my god, please say you’re not getting involved in THAT freak fest.

What’s a “freak fest”?

A place where all sorts of freaks gather. In this case, if the name “John Gosselin” comes up, I suggest you run far, far away from that scene.

Gosselin…Gosselin…where have I heard that name before?

Ed Hardy Shirts?

Oh yea. EWWWWWWWWW! Glad I stopped. Let me just twitter them and let them know I’m “previously engaged”.

Sure that won’t affect your job situation?

Naw, I’m in pretty good with lots of folks. I’m a big hit on Facebook and WordPress, and have more than 5 million followers on Twitter. I can afford to dump the Hollywood set.

Please do. They’re useless. They’ve gone to this stupid “reality” show format that is as far from “reality” as it can possibly be.

Gotcha — and it’s done. I’m all yours for the moment.

Great! I can use all the help you can give me.

What’s up? Why the angry face?

My face looks angry?

Smoldering. How come?

Well, I’m struggling with this piece I wrote.

How so?

The woman who wants to publish it had some questions she needed me to answer.

You’re getting published? Wow! How exciting is that!

I told you this two weeks ago. Way to stay on top of things, chickie.

You did? When?

Right after you met the “love of your life”. Hey, how’s that going anyways?

Well, about that…

Uh oh. Do I really want to know?

I’m not really ready to discuss it yet. Let’s just say things have been “temporarily put on hold.”

Okay, I’m fine with that.

Thanks, now back to the issue that brought us here today. What’s so hard about answering these questions?

That’s the problem. The answers she wants aren’t so simple after all.

Now I’m getting annoyed.

That’s kinda funny.

Why so funny?

I probably should tell you the title of the piece that she wants to publish.

That might work. Maybe we can work from there.

“Conversations with My Muse: Inspiration and Origins”

WOW! You mean she’s publishing that conversation?

Yes, can you believe that?

Holy crap. Where is it going?

Into a national writing gallery. It will be read by adults and children.

Oh nooooo…

Yea, exactly.

We do have some rewrites to do. That is so not appropriate for the “younger” crowd.”

Well, that’s not really the problem. I was able to edit out the bad language and all that..

Well then, what’s the problem? It seems to me that all’s fine and dandy then.

It’s not that cut and dry. I am struggling with trying to explain our relationship.

Whose relationship?

Ours! Yours and mine. How we work together. How we can’t do our jobs without the other’s contribution.

Huh?

See! that is exactly what I mean. I’m just as confused about her questions as you are about my explanation.

I’m still not getting what you’re saying here. Maybe we need to start over.

That’s probably a good idea. Let me get more coffee first.

You and your coffee. Okay. Java-up. We need 100% focus here. Fortunately, I’m still on my meds.

That’s good to hear. I can’t have “inattention” added to the list of issues today. My head might explode.

Um, no.

Okay, let’s try talking through this one issue at a time. Maybe that will help.

Sure, where to start?

Let’s first start with the question she posed: “Do you think readers will make the connection with the phrase “Yank it like a monkey in a mango tree”?

YIKES, that’s a touchy issue. Especially since that is the part that talks about…well, you know.

Yes. I had to edit that whole section out. Can’t have that in a place where kids can read it.

I totally understand. Were you able to fix that?

Yes, and it seems to make sense to me, but the publisher is still confused by it. She’s concerned readers will not understand the reference.

How can we fix this?

Well, fortunately, I add another reference a little later on. In fact, I’ve even offered to include a bit of the poem I wrote based on that line you gave to me.

Hey, that’s a great idea. Just throw in two or three lines from your “Soundin’ Off Again” poem and it will make much more sense to the reader. I think it’s important that you include that.

Okay, done deal. Two to three lines from that poem, and that should clarify things.

Next?

Next comes the need to explain your job.

My job? Why must I explain my job to your readers? Isn’t it a bit obvious?

Well, not everyone knows what a “muse” is or actually does. And remember, this bit was all about the writing “process”. So, the publisher wants a better clarification of the actual writing process.

Hmph.

YES! That is exactly why I am stuck at this point.

I totally get that. You are being asked to explain something you can’t explain away that easily.

BINGO! These conversations aren’t about the mechanics of writing. They aren’t even structured, logical, sequential writing pieces.

I hear ya on that one, sister. Especially on those days where I’m off my meds. Whoo! We’ve gone off on some interesting tangents, eh? And that conversation with the sandman…Wow

Okay, okay, stay focused here. I’m almost done.

Sorry, just reminiscing about the good old days.

Good old days? Jeez, that was last month, if I remember correctly.

Well, when you’re a muse, time travels at an entirely different pace.

I guess so. But, let’s get back to this. Dr. Phil is almost on.

Sure. Our relationship. My job, your job. What about all these things?

Well, I’m trying to point out to the publisher that the “dialogue” we have between us is the actual “lesson” to be learned. In that conversation we had, the inspiration was given by you, and the origins was the line from the TV show.

Ahhh, I get it.

I know. You get me, I get you. But, how can I get readers to “get” the both of us?

Wow. That’s a really good question.

Got an answer?

Not really.

Gee, I guess I need to keep struggling with this, then, huh?

No. I’d recommend you keep everything “as is” and only focus on the mechanics: grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc.

Why?

Because our conversations are “ours”. They belong to us and so what if others don’t “get” them right away. As long as you and I continue to understand each other and talk these issues through, I say let the words stand as they are.

Wow, that’s pretty profound.

Yes, I guess it is.

One final comment…

What’s that?

Don’t go to Hollywood. Your talents are much better needed elsewhere. You’re too good for them.

Aw, you’re so sweet. Hugs?

Always. Later, chickie.