Small Kindnesses

I believe in small kindnesses.

This afternoon, I took my children to our central downtown library, to continue in their endeavor with the summer reading program. I’ll admit, I got started a little late this summer, with all of the other obligations that came throughout June, but we have really enjoyed getting back into our weekly library visits this past month. Over the last year, the librarians have become quite familiar with my little clan, as we would often visit once a week, during the school year. My kids have grown comfortable enough with the staff that they will ask them questions and strike up conversations. It’s lovely to see that feeling of tight community, especially at the largest library branch in the city, where things are a little busier and the staff has more demands on their time.

This morning, I pushed myself to the edge of heat-stroke, by working in my yard when I probably shouldn’t have. Lesson learned. So, by the time it was time to roll out to head to the library, this lil’ mama was not feeling too stellar. Still, it was Tuesday, and Tuesday is library day—period. I packed up our 15 books and 6 movies, and off we went. Despite the fact that I had debriefed the offspring on what today’s protocol would entail, they had their own agendas. The plan had been to make things quick and painless. Mommy wasn’t feeling well. Let’s just get this done, shall we? Well, that just turned into a festival of “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” and by the time we reached the check-out desk, I just wanted some silence. C’mon—isn’t that what libraries are all about?

So, there I am, with 3 kids repeating my name, 3 little hands in my face, 3 library cards that need to be passed out, 3 summer reading program folders that need stickers, and 15 books that need to be managed and accounted for, and all I could do was just let out a quiet sigh. What I wouldn’t give for someone, anyone to just make the world stop for a second, so I could just catch my breath. And that person, was my beloved children’s librarian.

She is always so kind and soft-spoken, with all of the patience in the world. We struck up an acquaintance last fall, when she realized I worked in education. I think it may have surprised her when she learned that the mom with all the tattoos and goofy-looking hair actually worked for an elementary school, and since then, we always chit-chat about the latest book-related nonsense, and seem to appreciate that there is another adult out there who loves children’s literature just as much as they do.

She is used to seeing happy, smiley, enthusiastic mom—not quiet, tired, overstimulated mom. I saw a clear look of sincere sympathy on her face, and she took a few moments to offer me some words of encouragement. She didn’t have to do that. It’s not in her job description. If anything, nobody would have blamed her if she had just tried to get us out of there as quickly as possible, but that isn’t what happened. She was kind and she was patient and took the time to try to make things better. She doesn’t even know my name.

After we made it downstairs to have our parking ticket stamped, my phone rang—and it actually rang, because I forgot to turn it off when we entered the library. Oh wonderful. Way to go, Hill. Phone ringing in the library. You’re so awesome right now. I answered, and it was my librarian. She told me that I had accidentally left my sketch pad behind, when I unpacked the old books, and was hoping to catch me before I left. I was so grateful, and then she insisted on bringing the sketch pad to me, instead of having me drag the kids back upstairs. I was blown away. When she arrived, she acted apologetic for calling me, as if she had invaded my privacy by looking up my phone number. I extended my gratitude yet again, only this time, she stopped to ask my name. “Hillary,” I said. She smiled, “You’re kidding. That’s my daughter’s name.” And there it was. After a year of sort of “getting to know each other”, we were finally formally introduced, all because she could tell that I needed a momentary superhero.

If I can say anything about living downtown, it is that it feels more like living in a small town. Everyone knows everybody else. There is a real sense of community. You see the same people every day at a coffee shop. My baristas know my name, and I know theirs, and they ask you how your vacation was, or how your work day went, and so on and so forth. You actually get to know your neighbors, and they help each other out, whether it’s repairing your house, or getting your mail when you’re out of town. We even have a community garden. When I go to the grocery store, the check-out lady always likes to tease me about how much milk I buy every Tuesday. And when I go to the library, my librarian has takes the time to get to know us. She knows what authors and subjects my kids like, that I come there once a week, and that I’m a single mom who sometimes runs herself into the ground for her kids.

It is the small kindnesses that can make such a difference in a big, big world. They keep us all from feeling so lost-in-the-shuffle. They make us feel like we’re part of something—that we’re not invisible. I have experienced more of this in my few years living downtown than I ever have in all of my years of suburbia. As ironic as it sounds, downtown is breeding kindness, or at least my experiences lead me to believe so. There is a lot of love down here, and for this lil’ mama, at least, it has made a real difference.

The Year Of Peas n' Carrots

Well, it's that time of year again. The end of the school year.

While the end of our academic year doesn't arrive until the end of the week, the past few weeks have caused me a great deal of quiet introspection. While most may celebrate the arrival of a summer vacation, free of students and school-related things, the end of the school year causes this typically chronically sunny-side-up girl, to, well, for lack of better words, become seriously bummed-out.

Every morning, before the students arrive, and I am passing from building to building, I am always drawn to the calm and quiet of the empty playground. There is just something about it that carries so much potential, almost as if it holds a secret that none of us educators will ever know. Sometimes, I like to walk through it on my way to start the day, in an attempt to gather some of the innocence and wonder that the children may have left behind the day before, so that I may see the world from their point of view and use it to help them succeed throughout the course of a new day.

I believe that when you are with children all day long, one of two things can happen. You can either grow to resent children, or you can begin to return to your childhood. For me, it's the latter. Sure, educating these children is my job, but I also feel a kindred spirit in them that I just don't feel with many adults. Call me crazy, but I would much rather carry on a conversation with a child, than associate with an adult. Period. I learn as much (if not more) from them, as they (hopefully) learn from me.

So when the drone of student chatter and laughter falls away this week, when I no longer hear the Pledge of Allegiance echoing through the halls in the morning, when I no longer get to smell freshly-sharpened pencils, and am no longer greeted by the rumbling surge of school buses, I will feel a void. These are many of the small staples of my daily life, and as simple or insignificant as they may seem to most of the world, their absence will feel substantial to mine. It always does. And that is why this time of year is always quite bittersweet.

As educators, we invest so much of ourselves in what we do. It takes so much heart. Given my job responsibilities, in particular, I invest myself in just a small handful of students each year-- sometimes only one or two-- and it makes parting ways with them even more difficult, because I get to know them, inside and out. Every year, I tell myself, "Do your job. Get them from Point A to Point B. But at Point B, you must say good-bye and pass the torch to someone else, trusting that they will handle that journey to Point C with just as much care as you did." It's never that simple, because somewhere along the way to Point B, you realize just how far you've come from the beginning of the school year, and it starts to kill you that you can't just keep going, and see your investment through 'til the end.

This year in particular, I have seen the world through a child's eyes-- more than I ever have-- and I have never felt more like "myself" because of it. It has been a beautiful and life-changing experience, one that, despite my heavy heart, I feel priveleged to have been a part of, and will continue to hold onto for many school years to come. It is ironic how a single, sometimes completely-misunderstood child, could make me understand the world so much better than I ever have, and even with as far as we have come, and given how many battles we have both endured over the last nine months, I can honestly say that he gave me way more than I could ever give him.

To some, that might feel like a failure, but I disagree. Sometimes, the biggest mistake we make as educators is failing to remember that we should come to school every day, ready to learn as well. It is, by far, the best part of my job. So yes, I am sad that this year's learning experience will end in just a few days. I want to keep going. But I know that next year, there will be someone else who needs me, someone else who will teach me to see the world by hanging upside-down, someone else who will make me a better person.

But I'm still going to miss the crap out of him. Thank you, buddy-- so, so much.

Love,

Miss Hill

The Perfect Storm

You know those moments when you insist that someone must be filming you?-- That you are an unwilling participant in some sort of sick, "candid camera" documentary, made to mock the various crises of everyday life? Well, I would say that this afternoon was one of those moments-- if it had lasted but a moment-- but no, it snowballed into a full-fledged after school "experience".

So, this entire week carries with it more "shit to do" than should technically be allowed by law, and this afternoon was no exception. The weather alone was enough to make me start hissing like a feral cat. I love the rain. It's all soothing and quiet and romantic and delightful. I also don't hate the cold. It allows me to indulge in what I consider to be the better-half of my wardrobe. However, when the two are combined, they create a force so unwelcome and evil that I literally do nearly bare my teeth at the air as it whips mist around my face. I. Loathe. It.

Yes, the weather had already put me in an unusually sour mood, because all I really wanted to do as a result of the atmospheric conditions was curl up in my footie pajamas with Mighty Mo, and maybe watch a Hugh Jackman movie. Instead, I had several hours of non-stop errands and appointments after school to "look forward to". Why????? Why can't I just go home???? Can't I just postpone until tomorrow? Pretty please? In the words of Grumpy Cat, "No."

Sigh.

So, in the midst of the still-steady rain, I corralled the kids into the car, or tried to, anyway. What is it about kids and puddles? Is there some sort of weird gravitational force that automatically draws them to even the tiniest of puddles, so that they may stomp in it? I mean, really? I had absolutely no desire whatsoever to growl at them in the parking lot (which I wound up doing anyway), but I kind of despise being cold and wet, not to mention the fact that my biggest pet peeve in life is having a soaked hem on my pants. Mission accomplished. You are such an idiot for not wearing skinny pants and boots today. What were you thinking? I mean, honestly, Hill? When was the last time you actually wore pants that weren't fitted around the ankle, and you chose today to wear trousers with a straight-leg? You should seriously consider punching yourself in the face for that one.

Awesome! We are in the car and we are on our way! Miracle! Step one: Bank. Step two: Broken Arrow Library. Step three: Salon. Oddly enough, the kids were all quite quiet on the way to the bank. I am so used to the incredibly aggravating teasing, taunting, poking, prodding exchange that takes place almost daily in my back seat, that the fact that they weren't attempting to kill each other was quite noteworthy. They didn't even pester me for suckers at the bank drive-thru. That, in and of itself, was epic, and had I been on my toes, it would have been the first sign that something was amiss-- that the "perfect storm" was brewing.

We methodically made our way out to South Broken Arrow. Even though I grew up out there, I literally cannot stomach being that far outside of my safe little Downtown bubble. It makes my neck tense up, and sometimes, I snarl a little. Hissing. Growling. Snarling. God, I sound like a horrible human being, but when you combine the rain and the cold and the inability to go home when I wanted to, with going way out to a part of town that just makes me want to go home even more, the world is fortunate that I didn't spontaneously sprout a tail, wings, and scales, and start breathing fire. Or turn into Grumpy Cat. I would never do that, though. My Tami needs that alter-ego more than I do.

So. Yes. South B.A. Sweet Baby Jesus. The only redeeming thing about our journey out there was the fact that we were going to the library so I could secure a copy of a DVD that my student had so endearingly begged me to get for his presentation on Friday. I can't say no to him. Well, not often anyway. The joy on his little face would be worth my heinous trip, in the cold and rain, out to South Broken Arrow. I knew that. Still, I wanted to make it as painless as possible, and barked at the kids to hurry as we exited the car and went inside. I knew they would be tempted to explore, since we had never been to that particular branch, but I gave them strict and stern orders to stick with me as we made a beeline for the Children's DVDs.

I located what I needed almost immediately, and as we made our way towards the counter, Gabe paused and whimpered a little. He had complained of a headache after school, and seemed pretty tired, but this whimper was not a "tired" whimper. I knew this whimper. It was a whimper that was always combined with this wide-eyed look of complete and utter fear, that could only mean one thing. Impending vomit.

No.

"Gabe? What's wrong, buddy?"

"I don't feel so good."

"Ummmm, okay. Do you think you're going to get sick?"

"Yeahhhhhhh...."

"Okay, well then we need to find a bathroom. Quick."

But it was too late. He turned his back to me, and the next thing I heard was puke splattering onto the tile floor. I hung my head, and let out a sigh that was basically just Mom Code for, "Why me??? Why now???" And with that, just as methodically as I had mapped out the rest of my afternoon, I systematically faced the situation at hand, but not before Josh and Quincy both announced their disgust with what their brother had just managed to do, in what they practically consider a house of worship.

"Really, Gabe? Really??? Now we're not going to get to go to swim lessons! Ughhhhhhh!"

It's at moments like these when, as a parent, you must choose your battles. Do you get an inch from your daughter's face and give her your best "You Are SO Going To Regret Saying That" face, or do you just focus on the regurgitated snack that is now pooled on the library floor? Well, in my case, you tackle the issue of bodily fluids first. It's just the polite thing to do. I took the walk of shame to the circulation desk, where a woman about my age politely asked if I needed assistance, and was then forced to explain that my son had just blown chunks all over the floor. Such a lovely thing to explain, and her face reflected it. Bless her heart. It was her first week on the job. She didn't even know what the clean-up procedure entailed. Thankfully, she had a good sense of humor, as I tried to lighten the mood by congratulating her on being "initiated" into her new position. That still didn't keep her from pumping obscene amounts of sanitizer into her hands, over and over, though.

Yeah. I basically wanted to die at that point, but our day wasn't over.

Whyyyyyyyy is it still raining? Throw me a bone! We dashed out to the car, where I shot a text to the kids' dad, informing him of our disgusting little incident, since he was due to pick them up in less than an hour. I also thought it would be a fun time to crack a joke about the experience on Facebook. I mean, if you can't have a sense of humor about this stuff, then you're just not cut out for parenting, right? As we made our way out of the parking lot, and out onto the rain-slick street, my phone started erupting with texts, and then I was met with that all-too-familiar-and-highly-unwelcome whimper from the back seat.

Oh God. Seriously? Not in my car. NOT in my car. Please, Jesus.

I begged Gabe to hold on. I begged as I assured him that I would find something for him to use as a puke bucket, and attempted to get into the left-turn lane at the same time. Every expletive known to man raced through my mind (and probably came out of my mouth-- I honestly can't remember), as I frantically dug through a giant blue plastic Ikea bag in the front passenger seat, looking for something he could use, other than my floorboard.

Yes! His lunch box! Brilliant!

If you look up the word "improvise" in the dictionary, I am fairly certain that you will see a picture Gabe looking green and panicked in the back seat, and one of me tugging the zipper of his Stitch lunch box open, and flinging it backwards into his lap, as I made a left-hand turn in the pouring rain, and then hearing his vomit explode into it, just in time. You would also hear his siblings screaming at the top of their lungs in absolute horror at what was taking place.

It was a thing of beauty.

As PukeFest 2013 continued behind me, I reassured him that I was going to find a place to pull over, and immediately pulled into a gas station parking lot. I pulled up along the grass and briefly rested my forehead against the steering wheel, praying for death, as I had to be at the salon in approximately eighteen minutes. There was no way I was going to cancel. I had been looking forward to getting my hair sheared off for over a week, and a little throw-up wasn't going to get in my way. I got out of the car, too dumbfounded to even care about grabbing my umbrella, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. Gabe was pinned in the middle of the back seat, so I instructed him pass the lunch box to me, so I could dump it out, and subsequently rinse it, using what was left inside of one of their water bottles.

Well, that was how it was supposed to go down, anyway. However, we experienced some technical difficulties.

I grabbed the lunch box with one hand, which was just about the most careless move ever, considering the stupid thing is made of flexible material, and needless to say, disaster followed. The bottom of the lunch box collapsed under the weight of whatever came out of his little digestive tract, and most of it spilled out across his brother's lap and onto my arm and hand as I pulled it out of the car. Josh erupted in screams of terror, flailing his hands everywhere, tears streaming down his face as he began to hyperventilate over what had just happened to him. You would have honestly thought that someone had just lit him on fire, and I kind of think he would have preferred that to having his brother's half-digested food dumped all over his pants. I just sort of stood there, in the rain, staring off towards the traffic in the intersection, taking a deep breath, rapidly blinking my eyes, and wishing that I could just walk out there, so someone would accidentally run me over. It would be a quick death. I wouldn't feel a thing. It would be so easy...I couldn't even really be bothered to be all that concerned about the bits of puke that were now running down my arm, as I heard poor Gabe muttering embarrassed apologies from the center of the back seat.

Why on Earth am I starting to find this funny? It is so over-the-top ridiculous that it can only really be explained as some kind of cosmic joke. Let's see how much unforeseen b.s. we can conjure up for Hill today, and see what happens!

But, I did chuckle to myself. How could I not? I had just dumped one brother's vomit into the other brother's lap. After he had just thrown-up at the library. And still had puke all over my own hand. As I stood in the rain. At a gas station. In the freezing cold. In God-forsaken South Broken Arrow. And yet, by some miracle, my methodical instincts persevered, and I quietly procured a half-filled water bottle from the front seat, removed the lid, and rinsed the lunch box, as well as my arm.

Oh, and for all of those people who like to make fun of those of us who keep sanitizer handy, this is why we have it. So there. Next time you have puke on your arm, don't come crying to me.

Josh was still clearly scarred for life, shrieking and hysterical, until I promised him that he could change pants when we got to the salon. Yes, the only thing that was working in my favor at that point was that I had an extra change of clothes in the car. In the meantime, my phone kept blowing up, so I paused to answer the abundance of questions about Gabe, school tomorrow, substitutes, hair appointments, and offers of help.

We made it to the salon without further incident, where the kids were shockingly well-behaved. I have never been so grateful for that in my life, especially since that one little half-hour every four-weeks is usually the most painful experience I have as a single mother. There are few things I dread more than taking them to my hair appointments, because I am trapped in a chair being groomed, unable to string them up by their toenails when they misbehave, and they know it. Quincy actually had the audacity to hatefully hiss at me in the mirror during one appointment, and she is lucky she is still alive for that little display. So yeah, I am accustomed to the absolute worst they can throw at me, the minute I sit down and have the cape wrapped around my shoulders. I am not sure I could have handled it at that point if they had engaged in their usual behavior, or that they would have made it out of the salon alive. Even the fact that I was finally getting relief from my shaggy hair with a delightful new 'do would not have caused their lives to be spared. I think they must have known it, too. Smart kids.

I just wanted to go HOME. So. Bad. Instead, I had a few annoyingly-necessary errands to run once I dropped the kids at their dad's house (he was detained and could not pick them up, as we had originally planned). Upon getting the kids out of the car, I noticed that my back seat had fallen victim to PukeFest 2013, and that my "night off" was now going to be filled with not only errands, but shampooing the upholstery-- in the rain-- and cold-- instead of curling up in my pj's with Mo and Hugh Jackman. At this point, I was really starting to regret my self-imposed work-week rule of "no alcohol". A little vodka and grapefruit would have made for the perfect trifecta of pure awesome on a dreary winter night. Sigh.

Never the less, I embarked on my errands, but not before grabbing a quick bite to eat. Let me just say that you know you're, like, Mom Of Steel when your car wreaks of kiddie-vomit, and it still doesn't deter you from eating something from the drive-thru. True story. After gulping down my meal, I began to slowly feel the adrenaline from the last few hours drift away. I had managed to survive. Suddenly, even as I lined up a substitute to cover my spot at work, and rearranged a calendar that already has me going cross-eyed, I felt sort of lucky. Lucky. And calm. Even with all that had happened. And just like that, the aggravated, pelting rain of the afternoon's many disasters had morphed into a wave of large, sticky, quiet snowflakes, and even with being absolutely blown away by how completely preposterous my afternoon had been, something as simple as rippling sheets of blowing snow was all I needed in order to quiet down, too.

1813 Versus 2013

So, I'm reading this book-- "Me and Mr. Darcy" by Alexandra Potter. Long story short, it's about a woman who is my age, who works in a bookstore in New York City and holds every man she dates up to "Mr. Darcy" standards. It's a fluffy little paperback, which has been fairly enjoyable, save for the fact that the author completely (and purposely) plagiarizes one of the greatest love stories ever written. Oh, that and the fact that she justifies the idea of weighing every real-life man against the one guy who drips with more swagger than any other fella in literature (sorry, Christian Grey), which is only mildly unrealistic (rolling my eyes). The man does not exist (saaaaaaaadly). I've looked. Okay, I haven't-- but maybe I ought to. The most reliable man in my life weighs roughly twelve pounds, is hairier than the dickens, and has an under bite that is only exaggerated by a slight snaggletooth. Something tells me I need to aim a little higher than that.

What does this have to do with this particular blog? Well, here is this character-- Mr. Darcy-- this "ideal man"-- and he is brought before his audience in a time when courtship was incredibly different than it is today. Letters, not e-mails. Poetry, not texts. Men actually came to your house-- they didn't just "show up" someplace because they saw you "check in" on Facebook. And back then, you could go months without corresponding or even seeing them. You may even live a day's travel away from your love interest. Seems kind of tragic, actually, but I guess that's because it goes against what we are accustomed to here in the 21st century. Thanks to technology, we are a society of little (if any) patience (or privacy).

So, my question is: Does technology make today's relationships easier, or harder?

Computers. iPhones. Social networks. Do they hurt or help us? Honestly? Stop to consider it (because I certainly have), or I wouldn't have started scribbling this down in a worn-out spiral notebook, drinking a bottomless cup of coffee at 10:30 p.m. (which, from the taste of it, came from the restaurant's dinner rush). Whatever. I am a resilient breed. Nobody ever died from hours-old Folgers (or have they?....) Okay, sorry. You know how it goes with me sometimes-- I fly off somewhere towards Never-Neverland-- "second star to right and straight on til morning,"-- but I'm coming back around now. Ready? Awesome. Here we go.

Convenience. We thrive off of it. Instant gratification. We pay our bills online. We use GPS, and its creepy, condescending, phone-sexy voice to guide us to new destinations. Hell, we don't even have to get out of our cars to get a meal. Gift cards enable us to put as little thought as possible into giving a gift. E-cards eliminate the experience of actually mailing something to someone. It's all pretty sad. Sure, it saves us time, but whatever happened to good, old-fashioned effort?-- In regards to anything? The level of "convenience" that has come about as a result of all of our technological advancements has, without surprise, filtered down to the dating scene.

Online dating-- and heaven forbid-- speed dating.  The name alone implies convenience and (in my opinion) complete and utter laziness.

       Hi. My name is So-n-So. I am going to spend a whopping 120-seconds assessing

       whether or not we are "meant to be", because I am really just too busy and

       self-involved to spend more than two minutes getting to know you.

I have never done (nor would I ever do) the whole speed-dating scene, so it may seem unfair for me to attack the process, but come on. The concept just kills me. It's plain lazy. Mr. Darcy would have never tried speed-dating. Ever. Elizabeth Bennett would've scoffed at the notion as well (although her idiot sisters would've pounced on the idea). Back in those days, men (and women) took their time. They invested time and thought when it came to courtship, and as a result, we have these tales of real romance that have stood the test of time. I realize that these are fictitious accounts of Jane Austen, but this type of dating was customary for the time, and here we are, a couple of hundred years later (Pride and Prejudice actually turns 200 this coming year), still starry-eyed and dreamy over the Darcy/Bennett romance, wishing it would show its face in present day form.

Fast-forward to (nearly) 2013, and you can practically hand-select your date from a computerized list of faces and names that "meet your criteria". Non-smoker. Loves dogs. Active. Enjoys the symphony and long walks on the beach.-- and all that crap. Really? Am I the only one who is saddened by this? I have had several friends defend the process, and even know couples who met online who are now married and have children, but I remain unconvinced. You are asked to fill out a "profile" about yourself. What is this? A job interview? It should be more natural, and yet, because it is "more convenient" we have begun to literally manufacture relationships through these processes. We have made romance synthetic. It has become plastic. Certainly not what Jane Austen had in mind, and yet women wonder why they can't find their "Mr. Darcy".-- because he doesn't have an online dating profile, that's why.

He also didn't strictly correspond through e-mail. Think about it. Without much time or thought, you can tap-tap-tap, click "send", and satisfy your communication requirement for your relationship. The object of your affection can be the recipient of your thoughts and feelings as often as you would like. As a result of this, yes correspondence may become more frequent, but does it also have the tendency to become less meaningful? In Darcy's day, he didn't have the opportunity to pop off an e-mail on a whim. No, he had to take time to think about what he wanted to say, in a letter (no backspace key, mind you) and God knows, with as painstaking as it is to use a quill and parchment, that guy sure as hell didn't want to have to start the whole letter over because he changed his mind about what he wanted to say. That would suck. No, back then, people had to exercise real thought and sincerity in how they pursued relationships. No two-line e-mails. No "LOL"s. No empty text messages. Sentiments were heartfelt and the recipient knew it. I am not saying that e-mails and text messages don't help us to some extent when it comes to building relationships-- they do. There is a certain element of safety and confidence that exists when you have a digital barrier in place to protect your pride. There is also less agony in awaiting a response than back in Austen's day. Imagine waiting a month to hear from someone? Given how we live, we get antsy if we have to wait an hour for a response from someone. Love and commitment and attraction were truly tested back then-- a sort of "survival of the fittest" approach. If you could hold out and be patient, you could be rewarded with something lasting. Talk about resolve-- it adds a whole new layer to the concept of "pining for someone" (geez, I love that word-- too much). Instead, we have a world filled with quick, easy, impersonal contact, and it makes me wonder if it contributes to the fact that real love stories seem to be becoming an endangered species.

Now, there are many who would argue that, without modern-day technology, it would be next to impossible to actually meet someone these days. Today's society is one of chaotic, fast-paced lives. I am not entirely disagreeing with that. Technology does help, but what takes place between two people, beyond that point, as a result of technology, troubles me. Yes, all the digital socializing enables us to make that initial connection, but what does it do for us in regards to maintaining that relationship, or cutting those ties? You know what I'm talking about. You part ways with someone, but you are still strapped to them in some form or fashion, because of social media. Their lives are still thrust in front of you on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. They are able to trash-talk you to the world, and you are able to read it. Or, they can move on with someone else, and you are able to see that, too. Your connection to that person lingers on, long after you have parted ways, because they are instantly accessible to you, and you to them. In the days of Jane Austen, they did not struggle with this issue, or at least probably not as much. I am sure that once-couples probably crossed paths in town, or at the occasional ball or social gathering, but for the most part, I would be willing to bet that the longer someone was "out of sight" the more quickly they became "out of mind". No such luck today, unfortunately. Even with every "unfriending" or "blocking" feature we put into place, we are all still out there, tied to each other through mutual contacts and digital social circles. There is no escape, unless you have a heart of stone and are willing to turn a blind eye to it all, which, let's face it, most of us are incapable of doing. If only we still lived in an out-of-sight-out-of-mind sort of world where technological windows did not exist. We would be able to move on from past relationships far more efficiently, and in a more healthy fashion, thus leaving us open to the real love story that just might be waiting for us around the corner.

This isn't a technology-bashing blog. I mean-- I'm sitting here clicking on a laptop, able to broadcast my random train of thought to the world, because of technology and social media. But when it comes to relationships, and getting back to the root of what makes them last, I think that technology, while initially helpful, hurts us in the long-run. It prevents us from achieving a certain level of intimacy that is essential for making that Austen-esque love story that makes us jump up and down and do our "happy dance" over that certain someone (when they aren't looking, of course), possible. Real connections don't last as a result of digital correspondence. They endure because two people make an honest and balanced effort to connect and to build something, whether it is in friendship or romance or something else entirely. Anybody can hit "send". Anybody can "LOL". Anybody can "like" your post on Facebook. Is that what we really what we want to invest in or count on? Really? Connections that barely skim below the surface of who we are? I don't. Perhaps that is why I find so much enjoyment in sitting and watching people have face-to-face social interactions. It renews my faith that maybe there are still people out there who believe in what I believe in-- authentic human connections that survive beyond and beneath the surface of all the technological "conveniences" that, over the span of time, aren't really conveniences at all.

The Ugly Question

So.

Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely (if ever, actually) discuss anything truly serious on this blog. It has always been littered with comical tales of single parenthood, and whimsical, day-dreamy notions about romance. Even my Facebook page does not delve beyond my goofy inner-monologue and coffee addiction. Light. Fluffy. Geared towards anyone desiring a grin or a giggle. That's pretty much it.

I rarely touch on the subject of my job on Facebook, and have never done so on this blog, because with all of the confidentiality clauses and what-not, the stories of my work day must, understandably, remain protected (which is a darn shame, because man, have I got stories). Friday, and the indescribable events that transpired in Connecticut, changed all of that.

I learned of the news during a quick break in my work day. I like to check Time or MSN on the computer, to get my daily news scoop, because I do not watch television (honestly-- the antenna is not hooked up-- I haven't watched network television in almost two years). So, I was horrified, as I sat inside of an elementary school, to learn that another one, across the country, had just been gunned down earlier in the day.

For those of you who only know me through the post I made on Facebook, this is my third year as a paraprofessional for an elementary school in Oklahoma. I love my job. Love my job. I am a 34-year old single mother to three kids, ages 8, 8, and 6. They attend the same school at which I am employed. You may be wondering, "Okay. Seriously. Why are you telling us this?" Well, the fact that I work at the same school where my children attend class is what started that Facebook post in motion.

I am a pretty calm person. It takes a lot to get me stirred-up. However, as more details filtered out of Connecticut, and out onto the internet, a gut-wrenching feeling came over me.

My children are on this campus. My children. What if this happened here? What if I couldn't get to them? How could I get to them? Wait... You couldn't get to them. You have students to take care of. You couldn't leave them. They are your responsibility. Their parents would need you. They depend on you.

It was the most horrible, nauseating feeling I have ever experienced as a parent. Ever. I felt like I was "choosing" other peoples' kids over my own. I felt guilty. Helpless. I didn't want to trust someone else to protect my kids. Those are my kids. My babies. Nobody could ever protect them as well as I could. Nobody. I'm their mom. They're my babies.

I was confronted with the reality that I would have to have faith that my childrens' teachers would protect them at all costs. All costs. Anyone who is a parent knows that we all feel like we know what is best for our kids-- that we could protect them or provide for them, better than anyone else on the planet. It's like biological parental law. Even though I know my kids' teachers (and know them well), I fought with myself all day, telling myself, "You have to trust them. You have to. There is no choice."

Coming to this realization forced me to consider what all of the parents outside of the school system do every day, in regards to their childrens' education. They put their child on the bus, or drop them at the school's front door, believing that they will go inside, connect the dots of their school day, and come back home again. Prior to Friday, I had never really stopped to consider that these parents must either have an enormous amount of trust in us, or that they just don't give it much thought. If one thing is certain as of Friday, I believe that the trust is there, and now the thought is there, too, and this realization created a deeper sense of responsibility within me, in regards to my students.

Of course, I am not the only staff member on campus who has children who attend school there. Lots of us do, and I know we were all thinking and feeling the same thing. We all looked sick. Pale. Bleary-eyed. Distracted. There was an unspoken glance of understanding exchanged between all of us as we passed each other in eerily-silent hallways. We were all thinking about our kids. Biological and student alike.

We were all asking ourselves the question, "What would I do if?...." It hung in the air like a ghost.

Later in the day, I passed by my son's class, as they were waiting in the hall to take a bathroom break. His teacher and I are good friends, and we both just looked tired. However, there was my son, full of  "sunshine and rainbows", beaming up at me, waving his hand frantically by his hip, trying to conceal his excitement that "Mommy was walking by". As I passed his teacher, I whispered, "God. I just want to hug him. I want to hug him so bad," to which tearily squeaked out the reply, "You can." I held back, telling her I would cry if I did. The boy's in third grade. He didn't need his mom turning into a puddle in front of his friends. I kept walking, fighting off tears as I did.

I fight off tears just sitting here typing this.

I remember where I was when Oklahoma City got bombed. I was in my English class, my junior year in high school. I remember where I was when the World Trade Center was hit. I was recently engaged and in my first year of grad school. I remember where I was when the tsunami hit South Asia. It was the day after my boys' first Christmas. Now, I will remember this. I will remember seeing my son in the hallway, grinning from ear-to-ear outside of the boys' restroom, and me wanting to hug his neck like crazy.

As the day went on, we were all informed of heightened security measures. Parents were contacted. The end of the school day couldn't come fast enough. Students got extra hugs as they walked out the door-- the students that had not been checked out early by their parents, that is. When it was all said and done, you could see small groups of staff, pooling in the halls, as if we were all gathering breath from each others' presence and understanding. We could exhale what we had been holding in. All. Day. Long.

Please understand that I am not trying to over-dramaticize the atmosphere that existed in our school on Friday, or in any way try to compare it to what those at Sandy Hook Elementary were feeling that day. There is no comparison. In order to understand why I made my post on Friday, it is important to know what I saw and felt, and what inspired it.

Oddly enough, I left school a little later than normal on Friday, and took my babies home, grateful for once to have all three of them in the backseat, bickering with each other. Although I was hoping to get through the weekend without having to discuss the tragedy with them, those observant little monkeys noticed the flags at half-staff, and choosing my words very carefully, I let them know that something bad had happened, and that a lot of people died.

Please. Please do not make your mother talk about this anymore. I can't make you guys understand, and I am sad that, one day, you will understand, and then you will feel the way I do now.

My youngest (my daughter), ever the fan of "good versus evil", was the only one asking questions:

Did they catch the bad guy, Mommy?

Yes, honey. Yes they did.

What happened to him?

He's dead now, honey.

Did the police kill him?

Honey, I don't know. What do you guys want for a snack when we get home? (Please, please let me change the subject).

We got home, and I wanted to collapse. They gathered their snacks and ran upstairs to watch a movie they had picked out at the Redbox, and I proceeded to unpack their backpacks, pet the dogs, and consider what to cook for dinner. Despite my attempts to shove it all aside now that I was home (no television to remind me of it all), I couldn't. I needed to purge.

I do not enter into political or religious debate, with anyone. Period. When I need to express myself, I write, take pictures, or paint. I felt like writing something. However, sensitive situations such as these require a lot of care and tact, and I tend to shy away from drama. I am not going to post pictures of angel wings with victims' names attached. I am not going to post about gun control. I am not going to post about religion in public schools. It's just not who I am. So, this is what I wrote:

So, I rarely "soapbox" on FB, but the whole ordeal in Connecticut has brought a lot of perspective in regards to what my co-workers and I do all day. To parents who aren't educators, this may be hard to understand.

Five days a week, we teach your kids. That means we educate your kids. Play with your kids. Discipline your kids. Joke with your kids. Console your kids. Praise your kids. Question yo...ur kids. Beat our heads up against a wall about your kids. Gush over your kids. Laugh with your kids. Worry about your kids. Keep an eye on your kids. Learn about your kids. Invest in your kids. Protect your kids. Love your kids.

We would all take a bullet for your kids.

It's nowhere in our job description. It isn't covered in the employee handbook. It isn't cited on our contracts. But we would all do it. So, yes-- please hug your kids tonight-- really, really tight. But on Monday, if you see your kids' teacher, please hug them, too. Thanks.

 

I write what I know, and what I knew on Friday was that, upon hearing about what happened in Connecticut, we all added "soldier" to our stack of hats we wear throughout the school day. None of my co-workers said those things to me on Friday. None of them had to. It was written on our faces. We had all been confronted with the question of, "Are you ready to take a bullet for your students?" It isn't a fun question to ask yourself. It's just not.

I spend 90% of my existence surrounded by children, ages 4-10. It's awesome, and we all get to be a bit of a kid ourselves when we work with them. I wish to God we lived in my son's world of sunshine and rainbows, where everyone has a puppy to play with, takes hot air balloon rides all day long, and eats ice cream for dinner. I really do. But we don't. We live in a world where someone can destroy our bubble without any real rhyme or reason.

I did not write what I wrote in order to bring attention to "teacher appreciation". The whole idea is just tacky and selfish, and I am neither. I, for one, have never felt under-appreciated at my job, by the parents or the staff. I asked people to hug their kids' teachers. That's it. Why? Because on Friday, our job description met an unspoken change. We were confronted with that ugly question, and I felt like we not only needed the emotional support, but that it would help all of us to know, through a simple hug, that the parents trust us with their kids, regardless of the circumstances.

And yes, I hugged my son's teacher on Monday morning. Hard.

Pairs

Pairs. It's interesting how coupling appears all throughout nature, and in mathematics. The twin prime conjecture. Yes, well, it explores pairs of numbers-- numbers that are only divisible by themselves. 3,5... 5,7... not 7,9 because 9 is divisible by 3. Then you have 11,13... 17,19, and so on, and what was discovered, what often occured were pairs that were separated by one number in-between. --Jeff Bridges "The Mirror Has Two Faces"

Couples. They are everywhere. Mathematics. Musical duets. Bookends. Salt-and-pepper shakers. Peas and carrots. Scales of justice. Right and left. Good and evil. Bra and panties. (Okay, that one doesn't always exist, but it should-- for some people more than others).  And so forth. Over the course of the last several years of my life, I have taken a much more conscious look at the pairings around me. People I know. Total strangers. In all seasons of their lives. All situations. Young. Old. Opposite-sex. Same-sex. It really doesn't matter. I watch. I listen. I notice. I absorb. I learn. I become inspired. The funny little dance and dynamic that is couplehood, attempting to understand how and why it all works. Even with as complicated as I know it all to be, from the outside looking in, it all seems so... easy.

It got me thinking:  Amongst adults, are there actually more couples than non-couples? In my day-to-day observations, I would venture to say, "Yes," although I do not know that to be a statistical fact. I refuse to Google it. (It would probably be completely inaccurate anyway). In this crazy, fast-paced, ever-changing world in which we live, is it really that easy to "find someone"? By all appearances, it would seem so.

Seem being the key word. When it comes to this "over-abundance" of couples, how many of those people are truly happy with each other, or are they holding onto that person out of fear? Fear of being alone. I am a firm believer that human beings are biologically-wired for pairings. Sure, we all experience periods when we want to fly solo for one reason or another, but at the heart of who we are as human beings, being alone is sometimes the worst fate with which we can be faced. We seek to be matched.

The cynical among us could pawn this off as desperation or loneliness, but even in my most cynical moments (and there are many), I would disagree. We crave balance-- someone to tame our extremes, or bring out the very best in us. There is nothing pathetic about human nature. It is a beautiful and fascinating thing. We grow up believing that there is this person out there "waiting" for us-- the one. I would love to know who started that little rumor. According to one of my favorite films, it was Plato who said:

...We began as circles. When we strived to be like the gods, we were punished by a thunderbolt that struck us and cut us right down dead center in half. We scattered to the ends of the Earth, searching and searching for our other half. Now, what Plato was saying is that, if we just stop, and go with the flow, and follow our destiny, it'll lead us back to each other. --Marisa Tomei "Only You"

Don't get me wrong-- I am a big enough sap to at least entertain the idea of a soul mate. I love the idea of it; it's romantic and powerful, but is it reality? I suppose you could ask those people who claim to have found The One and they would say, "Yes." In all fairness, the single and bitter among us would probably say, "Hell, no." Now, regardless of my affinity for this movie, I am reluctantly on the fence when it comes to this philosophy of a pre-destined coupling. This is when the cynicism born from my life experience, and my stupid hopeless romantic side ruthlessly punch each other in the face. Honestly, as a single person, I think it is far too intimidating to attach myself to the concept that I am supposed to successfully locate this "one" person amongst the roughly 7-billion on this lovely little blue planet we call Earth. That would be like a real-life "Where's Waldo", on crack. And yet, I cannot deny the fact that we are designed to be paired, so perhaps there is some truth to the idea, however whimsical (and impossible) it may seem to be.

So, for the sake of argument, let's just say that we really are destined for someone. Then, I will ask the inevitable question of, "Why?" Well, perhaps the question really should be, "Why do we want to believe in something like that?" Personally, I think it comforts us to latch onto this philosophical promise that we won't end up alone-- that eventually, it will happen for us, just like it has so "easily" fallen into place for everyone else. And make no mistake-- we are promised-- by our families, our friends, our chosen theologies, films, songs, literature, and the list goes on. Is it fair? Sure, it is. We are wired for this. We would want it, even if we weren't promised. Why?

Because we need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet. I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything-- the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things. All of it. All the time. Every day. You're saying, "Your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed, because I will be your witness." --Susan Sarandon "Shall We Dance?"

Well, sorry Ms. Sarandon, but as I previously-stated, it's closer to 7-billion people, sweetheart. Get your facts straight. Lord, what are they paying the people who write these screenplays, anyway? Do I think that we seek to be paired out of a desire to simply have our lives validated in some way? No. However, there is something reassuring in knowing that there is at least one other person in the world who recognizes you-- and not just another person who can identify you in a police line-up or on a coroner's table, but someone who really knows you, almost as intimately as you know yourself-- that you aren't just drifting along in life, invisible. It is a connection-- our one real, solid connection to the world. An anchor. A sturdy chain amongst the thin, fraying, and often temporary threads that tie us to most of the people around us. Or, at least that is how it should be.

So, how do we make this happen? What's the secret? Well, I can tell you one thing-- it isn't by rhythmically bobbing your head to David Bowie while munching on a cookie in a coffee shop, crumbs all over my notes, like I am doing at this current moment, (although the "one" who awaits me would have to find such behavior completely endearing, because it is a habit that occurs on an all-too-regular basis). Seriously, though, how is it that this over-abundance of couples exists? How did they go from being a "me" to being an "us"? In "You've Got Mail", Tom Hanks' father is gearing up for his third divorce, and discussing his post-marriage game plan with his son. It becomes very clear that father and son have very opposing views on relationships.

I just have to meet someone new, that's all. That's the easy part.

Oh, right, yeah... a snap to find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy.

Even with as much as I like to see the world through rose-colored glasses, and would like to believe that every couple out there is giddy, head-over-heels, stupid in-love, I know that there are countless couples that I watch who came upon each other "easily" because they do not truly believe in, or want to invest the time to find, their "perfect" match. They are the ones who are with each other out of that aforementioned fear of being alone. They are the ones who would rather be with anyone than live a solitary life, even for a second. They are the ones who have a new "love" in their lives within 24-hours of their last break-up. They settle. ***Gasp*** I despise that word. These people make me sad. Sure, it is harder-- even brutally-painful at times-- to invest some effort and patience (and sometimes sacrifice some pride) in order to "find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy," but my goodness, we only get one shot at this life. Why waste it on something less than joy, and lots of it?

So, I will continue to quietly notice the pairs around me, trying to gain some insight into the inner-workings of it all. I will remain inspired by the couples who clearly refused to settle, and frustrated by the ones who did. I will keep drawing different perspectives from various romantic comedies and how they parallel my own observations and experiences. I will continue to sing "I Know Him By Heart" to my daughter at bedtime, doing my bioligical duty of pushing that promise forward, with the hopes that she will keep it in mind, and remember not to settle for anything less than true love. I will continue to root for the stupid, hopeless romantic side of my brain to conquer its occasionally-tempting fatalistic opponent. I will be Plato, and continue to see the world in pairs-- both matched and unmatched-- so that when that other prime number-- that other half-- that witness-- that one single person shows up on the radar, I haven't become so jaded that I pass him by.

Thanks

For weeks now, I have seen the daily Facebook posts made by people, declaring what they were thankful for on that day. I suppose that when we roll around to the month of November, our minds automatically switch over into "Thanksgiving mode", and perhaps it causes us to stop and think about how fortunate we are, a little more than we usually do. Although it was not something I participated in, it was an interesting concept to observe.

Rewind, and I can say that the days during my divorce were, quite possibly, the darkest days of my life. It was difficult to find hope or silver lining in much of anything, because as I saw it then, my world was falling apart around me. Every negative emotion that can be experienced by a human being, I felt like I was shouldering, a hundred-fold. Getting out of bed was difficult. Focusing, even more difficult. Smiling, impossible. And forget about laughter. It just didn't exist.

Until one morning, feeling as though I was anchored beneath the covers, I made a choice. I would start my day, thankful. Sure, I basically wanted to curl up into a ball and die, but there had to be something about my life that day that warranted a little gratitude. Something positive. Something to look forward to. So, I started the habit of waking up with the thought of something I was thankful for that day. It didn't have to be Earth-shattering, dignified, or newsworthy, but it was at least a beacon that would keep me from crashing into something that day. I have done it nearly every day since then.

Fast-forward, and I can say that I am fortunate. I know that. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not aware of it, and absorbing it. When you have had everything taken away from you, taking things for granted becomes a near-impossibility. Sometimes I think that is part of why I "see" things the way I do-- finding beauty in an oil spot in a parking lot, or the repeated pattern of rusted metal fence posts. I find it difficult to discount things, no matter how "everyday" they may seem.

So as I stand here in my dark kitchen, listening to the rain splashing outside of my windows, sipping on some mystery coffee (on which the jury is still out), smelling Mighty Mo on my shirt from when he sat in my lap earlier, I am thankful.

I am thankful that I am even standing in this kitchen. My kitchen. My house. I am thankful for when the kids belt out the wrong words to a song. For furry dog lips. For sunlight and starry skies. For strawberry jam. For the smell of clean sheets. For the strum of a guitar and the wail of a violin. For colors. For inside jokes. For love. For views that leave me speechless. For contrast. For being able to rest my cheek against my Grandma's kitchen table in a few days. For inspiration. For hours on the road. For when the dogs snore. For wanting to make a difference. For new people. For old people. For the sound of spinning bicycle wheels. For falling leaves. For watching the kids' faces in the movie theater. For the city skyline. For my job. For art. For telescopes. For superheroes. For romance. For tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. For toothless grins and giggles. For neighbors who actually talk to each other. For winning and for losing. For a good night's sleep. For births. For deaths. For watching people achieve their goals. For honesty. For the smell of a new pair of Chucks. For exploring. For believing. For still getting excited when I run across an earthworm or a ladybug or a toad in my garden. For the way the light hits the pedestrian bridge in the evening. For hot water. For the power of human touch. For windows. For surviving. For days by myself and for the days when I'm not. For Chinese take-out. For not having to ask permission. For nights that don't end. For the sound of the school bus and the smell of crayons. For energy that is tangible. For peace of mind. For never growing up. For cramp-inducing laughter. For time.

But most of all, I'm just thankful for being thankful.

Single Parent Soapbox

Well, I always said this would be a blog about single parenthood, and for the most part, that has been the case. In regards to this post, it is most definitely the case, although it isn't a laughter-laced tale of something completely random that my children did, or the comedies that come along with the dating scene. No, this in reference to a far more serious topic. Money.

In just about any divorce, at least one, or even both parties take a serious financial hit. It is the nature of the beast. The divorce process itself is costly, and the price tag of getting back on one's feet is far from miniscule. Everyone has to learn to adjust, and if there are children involved, some have to adjust more than others. What was once an evening to dine out at your favorite restaurant now becomes a family-sized box of macaroni and cheese with Spongebob Squarepants annoyingly grinning up at you from the box. That yearly vacation you always took? Yeah, you'll be spending that money on school supplies, Halloween costumes, and a new washing machine (after you have clean worn yours out from the 25 loads of laundry you do every week-- by yourself).

Oh, and paying off the debt you have had to accrue as a result of said divorce? Yeah, you can forget about that, too, because the bank will take one look at your income, and laugh at you when you apply for a loan.

Look, I get it. Banks can only assume so much risk. Understandable. However, when they are looking at my financial information, and can see how much I comfortably pay each month on the debts that I have, and it is virtually the same amount as what I would be paying them each month on a loan payment that would eliminate that debt, and they still say no-- that, I don't understand. My goodness, a different bank just loaned me enough money to buy a house. This should not be rocket science.

So, here I am, a single working mom, who has always been smart with her money, trying to make yet another positive financial decision that will help get her recovering family ahead, and "back on their feet" following something none of us ever asked for, and the answer is "no". "Why," you may ask? Income. Not my credit (which I have worked very hard to keep squeaky clean). No, it's the fact that, according to their "magic formula", I don't make enough money.

Oh, but wait! Let's not forget that they have proof right in front of them that I have the money to comfortably make a payment each month. How does this even make sense?

Yes, here I am, a single working mom, attempting to be responsible and pay my dues, and I am being denied the opportunity to do that. How is this right? It is no wonder so many families have had to file for bankrupcy in recent years. The options to pay off debt, and pay it off responsibly, (if you don't make six-figures, anyway), seem to be few and far between. Short of winning the lottery, it is all but impossible to get credit cards paid off, given their current interest rates, which is another gripe entirely. Yes, let's punish the long-standing, loyal, responsible accounts with rising interest rates. That's just awesome.

I go to work every day. I pay my taxes. I obey traffic laws. I am ridiculously nice to people. I pay my bills on time. So yes, I am aggravated that my desire to continue my responsible path in life is being hindered over the fact that I am on a single income. What does the bank want me to do?-- Sell my soul and actually go out with one of these uptight, money-driven corporate guys who ask me out, and then get hitched in six months, just so I can tie another income to my application? Really? Sorry, but that's not going to happen, and yet I feel like I am being punished for making good life choices.

So yes, I am hacked at the system, and this is my brief soapbox moment. Does this mean I am throwing in the towel? Hardly. I mean, really-- when have I ever thrown in the towel?

Reflection

re-flect \ri-flekt\ vb

1 : to bend or cast back (as light, heat, or sound)  2 : to give back a likeness or image of as a mirror does  3 : to bring as a result  4 : to cast reproach or blame  5 : to ponder or meditate

Reflection is one of the most interesting concepts that we experience as human beings. It pushes our curiosity and exercises our minds. As infants, we become shocked with amazed bewilderment upon seeing our reflection for the first time. We perceive the image as another human being, and interract with it accordingly, making one of the very first social connections of our lives. As we get older and make our own choices-- both good and bad-- it sometimes becomes more difficult to "look at ourselves in the mirror" and we find ourselves reflecting our own faults and misgivings onto those around us, to make it easier to live with ourselves and our mistakes. If we are fortunate, as we make it further down the road, we have learned from our experiences-- both good and bad-- and begin to reflect on what we have learned, and what we still intend to channel or what we want to do differently in the future.

Reflections come at milestones, as epiphanies. They come during points of transition, as closure. Sometimes, they come as both. Tonight, I am lucky enough to experience both. As I close the door on yet another summer, I feel suspended. Not "suspended" as if I am floating from happiness (although I am quite excited about the new school year), but rather as if the usually-busy world around me is "on pause", and I am moving and turning, looking for that sign that will point me towards the road down which I am supposed to go. It's there. I know it is. That is why I feel suspended-- not frozen. It's there, and I will find it-- this much I know-- sometime between this moment and 8:30 tomorrow morning.

I sit here in bed, cross-legged, with a computer in my lap, and a bowl of incredibly tart, freshly-sliced peaches to my left, Puccini blaring from the speakers to my right, and for once, I am not sad that summer is over. That is not to say that it has not been a brilliant eleven weeks-- it has been. The last 80 days have held some of the most unexpected and enjoyable experiences that I have had in some time. New faces. New places. Late nights. Early mornings. The big. The small. Laughter. Tears. More laughter. And the list goes on. I am one lucky girl.

But I have grown bored. One could say that this comes from having eleven weeks "off", and that getting back on the horse will be the cure for what ails me, but this boredom feels different, somehow. It is not as if I "need something to do". Heaven knows that is never the case. No, tonight, in my pondering of the past eleven weeks, something has shifted. My focus. My hopes. My priorities. My tolerance. Something feels as though it is about to change, or maybe I am just willing it to, because I have no desire to continue down my current path. It has grown stale. So, here I am, sort of comically imagining myself standing in the middle of Boston Avenue, while everything in the city around me is frozen in time, just waiting for me to push "play".

It is, or at least it feels like, an epiphany and closure all at once. This chapter is closing-- the summer plotline, as well as others. They have served their purpose. I have learned what I needed to learn, and now I just feel like I am repeating myself. I am tired of the training wheels. So, whether it be while I sleep tonight, when I wake in the morning, or when I actually see the sun kissing the skyline of my once imaginarily-suspended city as I drive to work, I will spot a flickering neon arrow with my name on it, push "play", and like always, never look back. It's time.

Now That You Have The Proper Setting, Can You Say It?

You know what I hate?-- When single people, who obviously like each other, dilly-dally, play games, run hot/cold, and drop hints for months, instead of just coming out and saying it.

Wow, suddenly I feel like Andy Rooney. The voice in my head actually sounded like Andy Rooney, and suddenly, I can picture myself as a disgruntled old man, hunched over and scowling, wearing what appears to be a rather uncomfortable suit and tie, as I hear the stopwatch from 60 Minutes tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticking in my ear. Uh-oh. Hill is doing a "gripe" blog. This can't be good.

It is not so much a gripe as it is a long-standing question that has been hanging over my head for quite some time. I have never been quite sure why, but many of my friends come to me for relationship advice. Maybe it is because I am honest and won't just tell them what they want to hear, or maybe it is because I have been through a divorce, and because of that, they think that, now, I "have it all figured out".

Hahahahahahahahahaha. Ohhhhhhhhh... Whew... That is just damn funny. I think I have cramps from laughing now. Okay, back to my point. Me. My friends. Relationship advice. Got it.

Hey Hill, you're never going to believe what happened last night. I was hanging out with her, and she said this, and she did that, and I'm thinking, "Okay, this is finally going to go somewhere," but every time I ask her what is going on with us, I can't get an answer.

Hey Hill, so I hung out with that guy this weekend. You know-- the guy I was telling you about, that I've been talking to for awhile. A bunch of us went out, but he and I spent the whole night together, while everyone else was sort of doing their own thing. We've been friends for awhile, but everyone thinks we should get together. I really like him, but I'm not sure what to do.

Hey Hill, so that girl I have basically had a crush on for half of my life, well, I think the timing might finally be right, and I'm going to go for it, and just ask her what she thinks. Wish me luck!

Hey Hill, so what is going on with you and that guy? I am surprised you guys haven't gone out yet. He obviously likes you, and one of these days, I'm just going to say something if you don't.

All stories of my life. I have people coming to me who have actually been brave enough to confront the issue, people who are scared to death, and people who pay more attention to my personal life than I do, and give me their two-cents. The whole spectrum. However, I will say that the brave ones are few and far between. Most of us lack real stuffing when it comes to making our feelings or intentions plain, and observing this time and again, as of late, is what has inspired this, likely overly-thought-out, blurb / blog.

Don't get me wrong. Nothing is more frustrating than beating your head up against a wall, wondering what someone else is thinking, especially in regards to romance. While I certainly cannot give my friends all of the answers they are seeking, I am happy to dish out said advice, with the hopes that it may help my nearest and dearest to focus on the real issue at hand in their lives, move on from someone who is not worth their time, or work harder to build something with someone who is. While so many divorced women tend to fall on the bitter, I-hate-men-and-marriage-and happiness-and-sunshine-and-joy-of-any-kind side of things, I actually really dig a happy ending, and love closely observing the dynamics of relationships. It is, after all, a fascinating dance.

Allow me to set the scene. You meet someone, and there is a noticeable spark. You test the waters, get to know each other, develop your own unique line of banter, hang out, help out, open up, confide in, cuss, discuss, or whatever the case may be, and it goes on for weeks, months, maybe even longer. The suspense and tension builds to the point that the elephant in the room has grown to such a grotesque size that, suddenly, the pachyderm's backside has you and your "dance partner" pinned up against a wall, forced to confront the issue at hand. Not pretty (or comfortable), and yet nothing more happens. The chemistry is most certainly there, but the courage, quite obviously, is not.

Or, maybe it is someone you have known for awhile, and then suddenly, there is this extra, added layer to your friendship that cannot quite be explained. She's being oddly affectionate lately. Weird. Is he flirting with me? He's never done that before. Well, let me explain it for you-- it is the "My Goodness, Why Won't You Two Just Admit That You Like Each Other And Get Together Already?" layer. I see it all the time.

The problem is that the dance can sometimes go on forever, and one or both parties become confused, exhausted, (or both) and move on. It seems like, more often than not lately, I am surrounded by people who can dance with the best of them, but are just too damn scared to go for it. Why? Everything is just right-- conditions are perfect.

Aaaaaaaand, now I'm quoting 'Flight of the Conchords'. My goodness, Hill. Do you not have your own voice tonight, or must you continue to borrow one from random celebrities? Whatever. I know you follow me.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "My, my Hill. It sounds like you are speaking from personal experience." Well, duh. Of course I am, at least to an extent, anyway. I, like the rest of the population, have dealt with this problem in the tragic little relationship corner of my life, countless times. It is a situation that has baffled me personally, as well as puzzled me in regards to people who are close to me. However, when experiencing it myself, I have always automatically assumed that my silly, old-fashioned ways were at the root of the problem. After all, I could have always just sucked it up and asked a guy out myself, if I wanted to, but as a "lady" I all but refused to make the first move.

And, you're laughing at the "lady" remark. It's okay, I laughed a little myself when I typed it. Okay, I was snorting. I'll admit it. God knows, if my mother is reading this, she would have a few choice examples of just how un-ladylike I tend to be. Please, Mom, do not 'out' me to the world. But, I digress.

So yes, for quite some time, I always just assumed that the frustrating question of, "Why isn't this going anywhere?" was something that I alone was experiencing, as a result of my own stubborn nature.  There have been countless times when the chemistry has been there with a man, and I (and even several observers) have been left scratching our heads, wondering why we were at a virtual stand-still. Come to find out, this is becoming a relationship epidemic. Nobody, in this day and age it seems, wants to put all of their cards on the table.

Well, let me clarify. Most of the time it seems that all of the cards are laid out, save one-- the Let's-See-Where-This-Can-Go card. It is interesting to me how, sometimes, we can open up and divulge some of our most personal thoughts, our deepest secrets and fears to people, but when it comes to pursuing a relationship-- just coming out and saying, "Let's see where this can go,"--people lock up. The trust and understanding in and of one another is completely present, and while that should be the "hard part", we find more difficulty in asking one simple question, or making one simple statement. Why can't we just say it? What are we so afraid of?

Don't misunderstand. I am not writing this as an attack on people who have no guts when it comes to relationships. Hell, I am one of those people myself, a fair amount of the time, which is why the fact that this is seemingly such a common issue, has struck me the way it has. For me, it is not so much fear-based, as it is that I am just kind of old-fashioned. Call me crazy, but I like for a guy to ask me out. However, I find it hard to believe that this is the reason behind all of these occurrences that I am seeing amongst my friends. I believe that most people who should make a go of a relationship with each other, don't, out of fear, not because they are being a stupid, hopeless romantic.

"Now that you have the proper setting, can you say it?" --Debbie Reynolds

And yet, to be fair, perhaps there are more hopeless romantics out there than I realize-- people who are just hoping and waiting for that "perfect" moment, rather than seizing the imperfection that is right in front of them. In one of my absolutely favorite films, "Singin' In The Rain", Gene Kelly simply cannot get up the nerve to express his ever-growing feelings for Debbie Reynolds, seemingly as a result of living his life in cinematic, perfectly-staged "scenes". It isn't until he can create the ultimate romantic setting, using backdrops, soft lighting, and film effects, that he can articulate his attraction to his co-star. Is that what holds us back? The hope of that perfect moment?

Or, perhaps it isn't perfection that stunts the progress of courtship for some of us. Maybe it is simply the fear of upsetting the balance of something that, for all intents and purposes, "works" the way it is. You are friends, and you don't want to screw it up. Your interactions are comfortable, easy, and enjoyable, and you are afraid that, if you shine a glaring spotlight on the aforementioned, ever-swelling elephant, suddenly all of that comfort and ease will go slip-sliding downhill, until it drops into a dark canyon, never to be seen again.

Ah yes, that is when you know you are in serious trouble-- when you place enough value on your current friendship with the person that your fear of risking the relationship as a whole outweighs the fantasy of boosting the relationship to the next level. That's when your friends poke fun at you and chant in sing-songy voices, "You really like them! You really like them!" and you are thrust back into mortifying memories of grade school playground romances that never came to fruition because your friends outed you in front of the entire class. It is in that moment that you suddenly realize that your existence with that person you so long for has become just another one of those thousands of predictable romantic comedies, where two friends secretly pine for each other, but "respect the friendship" too much to own it. Sad.

Wow. You're really going to get your happy ending now, aren't you?-- Sitting back. Admiring from afar. Respecting them as a "friend". Making lame excuses. Yeah, ummmmmm.... no.

When it comes right down to it, as human beings, our ultimate goal, whether we want to admit it or not, is to love and be loved. It is our greatest desire, whether you are a seemingly cold, calculating corporate all-star, or someone who has the temperament to dress up as a department store Santa Claus. Love is love. Period. We cannot help when, where, or how we feel it, and we certainly cannot help for whom we feel it. There is no shame in that, so in reality, there should be no fear in doing what is "only human", right?

The people that get their happy ending are the ones who throw all pride and reservation to the wind, risk making a complete fool of themselves, and just say it. Cinematic perfection, and exquisite imperfection (yes, such a thing exists, and this is coming from a self-proclaimed perfectionist) do not just fall into your lap, and we cannot always dance as gracefully as we would like to sometimes. It takes guts, and guts are irrefutably admirable, at least in my book, whether it brings you that happy ending or not. The object of your affection will always remember how you shook things up, upset the balance, and took a chance, but they will never remember what they never knew in the first place.

http://youtu.be/PqsrVQfNYPc

Relationships & Real Estate

Well, here I am, after four and a half years of living a very transitional life, and I finally decided it was time to lay down some roots. The irony is that, according to some people, it was a tree that got me into this mess to begin with. Couldn't help myself there. Moving on. *ahem, ahem*

Buying a home. Sure, I've done this little song and dance before, but hunting down that white picket fence as a solo operation is a bit different. It's all me. What I say, goes. Boom. Brilliant! So, given all of this freedom and power and say-so (muahahahahahaha), you would think I would be running amok about town, looking at house after house, just because I could. Wrong.

That is when, this morning, I had a bit of a personal epiphone. House hunting, for me, completely parallels my dating life.

Hmmmmmmm.....

Sad? No. Heartless? Not really. Methodical? That just makes me sound cold, and ever-so-slightly evil. Logical? Okay, well maybe. We'll go with logical. Makes me sound smart.

If there is something I have preached to my single friends for awhile now, it is that, "When you know, you know." Now, I'll admit, I haven't been back on the dating scene long enough to really tout myself as an expert, but I have dealt with and closely observed enough relationships to know what works, and what doesn't. That, combined with my own personal experiences, has given me a pretty darn clear-cut idea of what I want, and what I don't want.

So, why is it that so many people bend and twist things into what they want them to be? Why not just save yourself (and others) the time, look at what is in front of you, make an honest assessment, and either take it or leave it?

Yet, that is not what most people do, in both relationships and real estate. We settle and make excuses, thinking that we can "make it work" or that we can change it into what we want it to be, and it is a colossal waste of time and emotion. Or, we become so wrapped up in those few "special features" that we can justify to ourselves why the other, mediocre features, are worth the sacrifice. I'm not crazy about the location, but it has granite countertops... He constantly flirts with other women, but he is a doctor... It has gold shag carpet, but I've always wanted a swimming pool... He still lives with his parents, but my God, he's built like Hugh Jackman...

After poring over an endless array of online listings last night, so that I would make a "day" out of house-hunting today, I found two, count 'em, two listings that I would consider for a home purchase. It was not as if there weren't more great houses out there-- there were some really beautiful, maintained, well-priced homes for sale-- but they weren't for me. They were for the person who wants shiny, trendy updates and a cookie-cutter existance. Thanks, but I'll pass. Let's just focus on the two that could actually make me want to come home everyday. I know what I want. I know what I don't want. Why waste my time entertaining something that, ultimately, won't work out?

That is when I realized that I am handling this whole home-buying experience the way I handle my personal life. I know a lot of single men, most of whom are great guys, but does that mean that I need to pursue dating them, just because they are there, and they're available, and are quality fellas? No, it doesn't. They're beautiful, maintained, and, essentially "well-priced", but most of them are for that girl who wants to devote her entire existance to shiny, trendy couplehood, be married in a year, and live a cookie-cutter existance that involves things like becoming a soccer mom, PTA president, and making sure she is the envy of all of her friends because she's accomplished more than half of the projects on Pinterest. Again, thanks, but I'll pass. As with my real estate choices, I just "know", and I have found it to be a fairly painless process to rule people out-- not because there is something wrong with them, but because I pay attention to detail, and I know myself well enough to know what I will or will not be happy with in the long run. I have no desire to change someone, nor do I want to force a relationship to run smoothly, anymore than I want to have to substantially alter a house to meet my needs, or force myself to settle for a house that, at the end of the day, causes me more stress than comfort.

Of course I allow for the people who like a "fixer-upper", both when it comes to home-buying, or searching for a mate, but that's just not me. There are those out there that have the time and the patience to see the potential in a neglected home, and want to turn it into their vision of awesome. I applaud those people, I really do. I have the vision, but I just don't have the time or the patience. However, when it comes to actual human beings, if you are looking to "fix" someone, in my opinion, you are ultimately looking to change them, and as much as we would like to believe that we can, we cannot change another person-- they have to change themselves.

My own realization of the parallels between how I purchase a home and how I handle my personal life makes me wonder if the fixer-upper people are the same way. Do people who like fixer-upper homes also pursue relationships that require a lot of extra work, care, and hassle? This may require further research.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking, "Hill, you're just incredibly picky, and you need to learn to get over it," but that really isn't the case. I never said I was not willing to look. Saying that I am picky about houses on the market or men in my dating pool is like saying that I have my eyes set on one particular house or man, and refuse to settle for anything else. That has never been, nor will it ever be, the case. I am open-minded enough to realize that new opportunities present themselves every day, both in the real estate and dating arena, and if the "listing" carries enough appeal for me to pursue things further, then I will.

Ah yes, as sick as it seems, "curb appeal" definitely translates. With a house, that magical first impression is all visual. It has to be. It either draws you in, leaves you unaffected, or repels you. The same goes for a man, only, for me, it isn't all about the visual, although I recognize that, for most people, it is. That first impression comes with how he carries himself, hopefully in such a way to warrant enough "curb appeal" to want to take a look inside. (Let's keep the dirty jokes to a minimum, people-- this blog is PG).

So the curb appeal is there, and you go inside the house, and sometimes you stumble across that "room" that makes you think, "Yikes. Can I live with this?" It's that room with the floor-to-ceiling, outdated floral wallpaper and pink carpeting. You know the room I'm talking about-- the room that "hasn't been updated yet". The deal-breaker room. Some houses have them, some houses don't, but too many people try to justify the deal-breaker room, convincing themselves they can live with it or work around it, because they love the rest of the house, or because the house is priced at a steal. The same goes for relationships. Sometimes, that first impression is solid, and you think, "There could really be something here," and you start to get to know them, and things continue to go well, and then suddenly, WHAM! No, not George Michael's kicky 80's music duo with Andrew Ridgeley. The deal-breaker. That one attribute (or collection of attributes) that makes that golden first impression lose its luster, and, as with the house, you are faced with the question of whether or not to invest further. All too often, people decide to invest, because they feel like the clock is ticking, and they end up trapped in an unhappy partnership.

Crap like that depresses me.

Real estate and relationships are investments. There is no way around that. Given my own experiences, I have found that, these days, I just prefer to put enough time and thought into making smart ones.

Despite this seemingly clinical parallel that I have made between dating and real estate, I am a card-carrying, flag-flying, hopeless romantic. I believe in walking into a house for the first time, and having it feel like "home". I believe in hearing a sweeping string orchestra in your head when you meet someone who is incredible. I believe that walls can talk,  that real connections are undeniable and magical, that you can be truly happy staying in the same house for 50 years, and that love can last a lifetime, and it is because of these beliefs, I suppose, that I refuse to settle for anything less.