How to Not Change Your Name (In 22 Easy Steps)

Hello, Blogging World!

I am back, after a beautiful, intimate wedding ceremony, a fantastic minimoon across the bridge to Annapolis, and several back-to-back shifts at the restaurant.  Though I will most likely remain J. Lynn Meister here and in other writing endeavors in an attempt to not have to rebuild a reputation/following, the truth is:

I am now Mrs. Jenny McFadden.

But not yet... legally, anyway.

Though we were married nearly two weeks ago, today was the day I wanted to get the name change accomplished.  It was a week day off in which we had to make a trip to Denton for a few other reasons, so it was the perfect time to pick up the certified copy of the wedding license from the Caroline County Circuit Court and then continue on to the Social Security branch to present the proof of our marriage and request my name change.

Sounds simple enough, right?

Wrong.  May I present...

How to Not Change Your Name (In 22 Easy Steps)

1.  Drive over an hour to Denton, Maryland, to request a certified copy of your marriage license.
2.  Pay for, wait patiently for, and then receive said copy of marriage license.
3.  Notice that beneath a section labeled "Minister Return Authorizing Marriage," the license says "No information about marriage given."
4.  Ask the clerk if this is a problem.
5.  Try not to have a mini heart attack when clerk agrees that that actually is a problem, and questions whether or not officiant sent required paperwork.
6.  Explain that officiant should have sent paperwork morning of Thursday, July 31.
7.  Breathe a sigh of relief when clerk locates unprocessed paperwork (in what looked to be like a fairly large pile of unprocessed paperwork).
8.  Wait patiently as clerk prints and stamps a new certified marriage license.
9.  Set off for the social security branch office nearest to your home in Georgetown, Delaware.
10.  Fifty minutes later, get lost looking for said social security branch office in Georgetown, Delaware.
11.  Venture into Georgetown Town Hall to ask where social security branch office is located.
12.  Find out that social security office has relocated from Georgetown, Delaware, to Lewes, Delaware.
13. Get back into car to head to Lewes, Delaware, accidentally taking the wrong exit in the circle and having to get back on it to exit correctly, only to find that upon re-entering the circle, a bumper-to-bumper line of traffic that was non-existent moments before has suddenly materialized.
14.  Drive to Lewes, Delaware.
15.  Pass the new social security branch office, which is hidden in what looks to be like a brand new apartment complex, obscured in part by ongoing construction which forces unusual traffic patterns and diverts one's attention from the location of the office.
16.  Realize that you must have passed the new office, and search for a suitable place to turn around and find the office.
17.  Notice the all-but-hidden sign visible only from the direction in which you are now approaching, and attempt to turn into the parking lot in which the office must surely be located.
18.  Drive aimlessly around the parking lot of what is most definitely a brand new apartment complex, wondering where Social Security office is located, and why it is located here.
19.  Accidentally find Social Security office.
20.  Park car, grab marriage license and purse, exit car to enter office.
21.  Realize that office closed twenty minutes ago.
22.  Proceed to work, bummed out by the realization that you must now attempt the second half of this process again tomorrow morning before the next shift you work.  Knock over a traffic cone when pulling out into the lane-shifted vehicular pattern as you attempt to turn into the correct lane against oncoming traffic.

But at least now I know where this God forsaken office is.  And perhaps their ploy to camouflage themselves within an apartment building will work to my advantage and I won't have to deal with long lines of irritated customers.

Only time will tell, so on that note, I'd better get to bed so that I might get as much shut eye as is required after closing a restaurant in order to wake up early and venture onward to brave the Super Secret Social Security office in the morning.

This is Jenny McFadden, signing off to say, good night world, and thanks, as always, for reading.

Mr. and Mrs. McFadden, just after being introduced to the congregation as man and wife.

True Tales of a Wacky Wedding Rehearsal...

Pop Quiz:

Which of the following happened during our wedding rehearsal?

A)  We locked the groom's mother out of his house without her keys or purse ten minutes before rehearsal began.
B)  The matron of honor got lost trying to find the ceremony venue.
C) The bride's phone died and the groom left his at the house, meaning the bride and groom had no idea how to get to the rehearsal dinner location, being as it was a restaurant (an amazing restaurant, by the way) located tucked away in the vast middle of nowhere known as Hurlock, Maryland.
D) The bridal party discovered they had no working electricity to try out music for the rehearsal, since it had not been turned on at their outdoor location.
E)  The bride's mother got stung by a bee on her foot as she returned to her seat after walking the bride down the aisle, prompting her to scream at the top of her lungs and kick off her shoe, sending it sailing across the park and smacking the boyfriend of the maid of honor.
F)  The bride's brother's girlfriend (who is allergic to bees) was also stung.
G) All of the above.

If you answered G, you're probably thinking, she's gotta be making some of this stuff up.  This doesn't happen in real life.

Well, if you're Jenny Meister...

it does.

So you would be correct in answering G.

But here's the thing:  the rehearsal was far from perfect, just as my fiancé and I are far from perfect.  But we are in this, no matter what.  So even if bees swarm our wedding (they sprayed), or the electricity doesn't come on (they promised it would) or I trip and go falling down the aisle (I hope I won't), or we drop the rings in the Choptank River (they're insured)...

I am still getting married tomorrow.

To the love of my life and my best friend.

The father of our daughter, our protector and provider.  The one who keeps me safe and tells me I am loved.

And at the end of the day, each other are all we really need.

Now having said that, it looks like God is blessing us with beautiful weather.  I pray all who are attending travel safe.  I pray that the catastrophic every day crazy that likes to follow me around chills out for a bit.

"This is going to sound like fiction" is my brand name.  It's the little catch phrase that describes my quirky, strange-but-I-swear-it's-true humor writing.

As I was relating the wedding rehearsal woes to a friend, she laughed, and said, "That's so Meister!"

Funnily enough, I'm even listed under her phone contacts as Meister.

But here's the thing:

As of tomorrow, I'll be a McFadden.

And while I'm sure the true tales of every day crazy will continue, what I really want for tomorrow is for the only crazy but true story to be of how much we love each other.

And no matter what else does or does not happen, I know that's what I'll remember.

Happy Wedding Eve, E'rrybody!!!

Rehearsal Dinner was a blast, even if rehearsal wasn't exactly what one would call smooth sailing...

Father's Day Funny!

I thought long and hard about posting this one... first of all, because as a born-again Christian, it is not my intent to glorify drinking.  I hope that's not the message that comes across here, because while I don't have a problem with social drinking, I believe that overindulgence takes away from the fullness of life that Jesus wants us to experience.  And obviously, many people who drink end up battling addictions and losing control of their lives in what started as a seemingly harmless recreational activity.  Secondly, I didn't want to negatively paint a picture of my late father, because in this story, he comes off as a bit silly.

But here's the truth.  My dad was a drinker.  It was a part of who he was.  To me, it never defined him.  He was so much more than that, and I can honestly say that I hope he's able to enjoy a round or two in heaven, because he took great pleasure in doing so here on earth, and from my point of view, he wasn't less of a father or man for doing so.  Furthermore, in an attempt to create humor, it may seem that I'm exaggerating in this story... but I'm not.  I don't mean to write AT my father's expense.  It is actually these colorful memories that have stayed with me that, having lost him, help me to cherish his memory and love him even better.  So I intend no disrespect with this story, it's actually quite the opposite.

This story, though never before shared online, was actually the foundation for my latest book in progress, This is Going to Sound Like Fiction.  I wrote it during a winter writing retreat, and literally, before tentatively sharing at our open mic, I explained, "This is going to sound like fiction... but it's not."  The response I received that night was so encouraging and warm, I actually began weaving together a collection of similar stories that explore the everyday craziness of life.

So yes, this story is a little crazy.  No, we don't all come off as perfect in the version I'm about to tell.  But Dad, if you know my heart, you know I share this in love, to bring a smile to someone else's face.  You were much more than just a partier--you were a great father, a hard worker, and a fantastic friend.  But your colorful antics were always a reason for me to smile... so I hope you don't mind that I share this with the world.  I love you and miss you.  Happy Father's Day.

The Lebaron Meets A Sad End

            “So we’re sitting on the porch, chillin, hanging out, and all of a sudden Dad comes bursting in.  He coulda been drunk, or maybe not, with Dad, it was hard to tell, so who knew?”

            I laugh, pausing my brother in the middle of his story, as he stops to grin and nod.  We’re standing in my kitchen, Dad’s kitchen, except I’ve got new hardwood floors and shiny stainless steel appliances, and the walls are a soft yellow now.  I’ve heard this story before, and I love it.  I listen to Johnny tell it again.

            “So anyway, Dad comes busting in all upset.  ‘Johnny, Johnny, we gotta go now!  We gotta get my car out of the ditch down the road!'” 

            I can picture it—a younger version of my brother with his brown curls cut short, sitting around with his twenty-somethings friends, maybe drinking, maybe smoking, all wasting time in the leisurely way of the young before careers, marriages, and social obligations.  My father—six foot two, Albert Einstein hair, wrinkled and reddened but kind face—yanking open the creaking sliding glass door, stumbling onto the porch, squinting and glaring at the group of boys lounged about in mismatching outdoor dining chairs.  His naturally booming voice louder than usual from that extra round at Smitty’s and the commotion he’s just been through. 

            I smile at Johnny.  “How’d he get home?” I ask, forgetting this part of the story.

            Johnny grins.  He looks a lot like my father.  He, too, has been drinking.  His brown eyes are glassy, his pale complexion pinkened.  “He got a ride from one of your high school friends!  Remember?”

            I literally laugh out loud as I rack my mind trying to recall which of my former cheer squad teammates experienced what had to have been the very memorable event of picking up my sixty-six-year-old hyperactive father, rescuing him from a two-mile walk down a tree choked one lane road, black as coal during the night.  I bet that was a long five minutes in that girl’s life.  God bless her.

            We can’t remember which of my friends it was, and Johnny moves on with the story.  “Now mind you, this was Dad’s convertible, the Lebaron, but to Dad, this is the car to end all cars.  This is the f-in (my brother does not say f-in, but I can’t quite bring myself to say what he actually said) Mercedes Benz of cars in Dad’s eyes!”

            I remember this car, though I do not recall ever riding in it.  A boxy, early nineties red soft-top convertible, my Dad’s pride and joy.  Dad wasn’t a car guy, but I think he saw this car as a chick magnet of sorts.  I wonder if he thought of himself as Fonzie or James Dean as he cruised Rt. 54 to Smitty’s, trying on different pick-up lines with the fifty-plus crowd of white-haired women.

            On this particular evening, Dad had wrecked the car in a curve that was so steep it was practically a right angle.  A common mistake.  Tourists and teenagers who took the turn with too much speed were forever being fished out of that ditch.  I’d landed in it once myself when my best friend went flying around it on a rainy morning a few months after getting her driver’s license.

            After what I imagine to be much yelling and excitement, Dad convinced Johnny and a friend to drive him back to where a buddy was towing my Dad’s precious LeBaron out of the ditch, so Johnny could drive it home.  But when they got there, the cops had beat him to the scene.

            “Who’s car is this?” Johnny sneered, an unkind impersonation of the policeman who had arrived on the scene.  Cops, in general, hated my brother, with his punk t-shirts and baggy jeans and multiple earrings.  “So I said, ‘It’s my father’s sir.’  ‘This isn’t your car?’” He demanded, changing his voice into the high pitched snarl he was using for the police man.  “ ‘No sir,’” (a humble voice) “ ‘it’s my father’s.’ ‘Where’s your father?  How’d this car get in this ditch?  He drunk?  You drunk?’  ‘No, sir.  We’ve not been drinking.  My dad just took the turn too fast and ended up in the ditch is all, I think.  I wasn’t with him.’  ‘Where’s your father now?’  ‘He’s in my car, sir.  Shaken up from the accident.  He’s elderly and frail,’” which was the most ridiculous lie yet to have come out of my brother’s mouth, for, though he had silver hair and a lined face, my father moved with the energy of a high school quarterback and was built like an ox.  Frail was a perfect antonym.

            The cop wasn’t buying it.  Eventually the friend Dad called to tow him showed up, confirmed that the ditched LeBaron was indeed John Meister’s (the elder, not the younger’s), and I’m sure, fed up with the entire situation, the police officer finally just called it a day and ordered the car impounded.  Amazingly, no one got arrested.

            But the story got even better.  Adamant that his chick magnet be returned to him immediately, Dad insisted that Johnny get up at the crack ass of dawn (well, maybe seven o’clock, but to my partying twenty-one-year-old brother, that was essentially the same thing) in order to chauffer him to the impound lot so that his LeBaron could be rescued. 

            “Dad paid $250 to get that car out that day,” Johnny continued, an incredulous smile brimming beneath his words, “And that very same night…” he was shaking his head.

            I was laughing so hard tears were stinging the corners of my eyes.  After all his valiant efforts to save the LeBaron from first the ditch, and then the certain doom of impoundment, his insistence that this be resolved absolutely immediately….

            That very same night he got this aging convertible home safe and sound, parked lovingly in the driveway—

            “BAM!” Johnny managed through choking laughter.  “Smashed by a tree!”

            Our house, you see, sits in the middle of an acre of woods, mostly giant, stretching pines, hundreds of feet tall.  The evening that they had driven the Lebaron home, a thunderstorm had rolled in, causing branches to fall and trees to sway.  As had periodically happened when we grew up, sometimes the whipping winds would even cause and older tree to crack and fall.  On this particular occasion, one such tree had fallen on the LeBaron the same night it had been returned to my father.  So a mere hours after it had been secured and returned to him, mother nature and/ or fate thwarted my father once again, smashing his beloved car into smithereens with an unassuming pine tree.

            Maybe some things just aren’t meant to be.  Or maybe my father was a magnet for irony.  All I know is that despite his most diligent attempts, the LeBaron met a sad, sad end.

            Still, it makes for a great story.

 

 

 

Eleven Always Was My Favorite Number...

Eleven days.

That's how many teaching days remain in this school year, which was one of the best of my career.

This year also happens to be my last year in the classroom, for possibly at least four (and perhaps even more) years to come.

I've been accepted into Salisbury University's inaugural doctoral cohort in the Literacy Curriculum Theory and Instruction Ed.D. program.

But wait, there's more.

As of this week, I received notice that I'll be receiving a graduate research assistantship.  This means I'm blessed enough to get a full tuition waiver, and I'll earn a modest stipend in return for performing scholarly research.

I am overcome with gratitude at being offered this opportunity.  I'm praying that I'll find success and fulfillment in this next chapter of my professional life.

And, it was time for me to leave the classroom.  Though there are aspects of teaching that I'll always be in love with, I am not a career teacher.  I've always known that... it's not that I don't enjoy teaching.  It's the politics, the external factors, and many, many other contexts surrounding our profession that I can't stand.

I feel like this new opportunity will really offer me a chance to fully explore my talents and make a broader contribution to the field.  I don't want to add to the hoops teachers have to jump through.  I don't want to become someone so ingrained in theory that I forget what it is to actually put it into practice.

But I do know that I am a far better writer than I am a teacher.  I know I have the power to use words to make great things happen.  It's a gift from God that's not fully being used right now.  But I believe with all my heart that He is opening this door for me, and He has plans better for me than even I can imagine, plans that exceed my wildest dreams.

I want to revolutionize the way we teach writing.

One of the biggest compliments I ever received from a former student went something like this:

"Miss Meister!  You made writing click for me.  All of the sudden I could just write what I would say.  You're the bomb."

That's my end-of-year-teaching-brain trying to quote that reference, which is from the lovely and talented Rebecca Witzke, whom I had the pleasure of teaching several years ago.

And I have had other students reach out years after having taught them.  Students that I wouldn't have necessarily thought I had that great of an impact on.  Ones who told me how much I helped them, how much they appreciated me.  These students praised my teaching in some cases, but even more special to me, they valued the relationship we'd shared as teacher and student.  I was someone they trusted.  Someone who made them feel safe.  Someone who respected them and treasured them and gave them confidence that they deserved to own, because they were special and unique and wonderful.

This is the part of teaching I'll miss the most.

I have eleven days left with a group of kids that have really touched my heart.  Hands down, they're the best group of 7th graders I've ever had.  They've made me laugh.  They've made me cry (in a good way).  I've experienced that not-so-good crying throughout my teaching career, too.  And that's okay.

You can't hike through the mountains by staying on the peaks.  You gotta hit those low points, too.

So, in eleven days, this journey will be over.  The good.  The bad.  The precious.  The mistakes, the deadlines, the testing, the everything...

It will all be behind me.

I couldn't be more thrilled with my chance to learn, to grow, and then to make a huge difference.  But I'm also saddened when I think that this might be the last group of kids I work with face to face on a daily basis.

I'm relieved in a way.  No more grading.  No more disciplining.  No more nerve-racking parent phone calls.

But it's so bittersweet.

No more coffee mugs or homemade goodies at Christmas time.  No more high-fives or hugs for a job well done.  No more comforting someone who needs it, with a smile or an encouraging word.

Who knows?  Maybe I will end up back in the classroom.  Maybe I won't.  Either way, I will make these next eleven days count.  And to commemorate the end of an era (one decade of my life), I wouldn't be me if I didn't share a little Everyday Crazy, Classroom Edition to celebrate my exit/hiatus from public education.

And Yes, This is Going To Sound Like Fiction...

(But it's not)...

 

Why English Teachers Die Young

            I once received a chain email entitled “28 Reasons Why English Teachers Die Young.”  Supposedly, it contained actual similes and metaphors used in high school students’ essays and stories written for English classes.  I’m not sure of its authenticity, but I am sure that it was hilarious.  I was (I think) a freshman in college when I first received it, and I remember searching the internet on a couple different occasions in the later years to find comfort in its humor as the stresses of studying for the occupation and then actually performing the job on a daily basis began to wear on me.  I was so fond of it, I printed a copy and hung it on one of bulletin boards when I taught tenth grade, reading it to my honors class on the first day of school to give them an idea of what not to do (and to also show them that I wasn’t some grammar-correcting-Nazi-robot with no sense of humor).

            Some of my favorite snippets from said email include:

Reason #5: She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Reason #14: Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

Reason #20: The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The longer I’ve continued teaching, the stronger my conviction has become in believing that yes, English teachers are probably more inclined to die young than those who’ve chosen differing career paths.  I have read my share of laugh out loud, terribly poorly written analogies and explanations in my students’ papers, not to mention careless errors and typos that make me want to smack my forehead.  But what’s more likely to lead me to early graying isn’t so much what they say in writing as what my kids say out loud.  Particularly since making the switch to middle school, I’ve experienced this phenomenon.  So, I represent this irrefutable evidence:

Legitimate Reasons English Teachers Will Die Young:  Actual Conversations with Middle School Students

(Names other than my own have been changed to protect the innocent)

1.       Art:  “Ms. Meister, I don’t understand this question.”

Me:  “Let’s read it together, Art.”

Art:  “Select the word that doesn’t follow the rhyme scheme.”

Me:  “Okay, so what does that mean?”

Art:  “Um… pick the word that doesn’t rhyme?”

Me:  “Very good, Art.  So what are your choices?”

Art:  “Sun.  Flower.  Done.  Run.”

Me:  “So what do you think?”

Art:  “Well… I think maybe flower, because it doesn’t sound like the others.”

Me:  “Uh-huh…”

Art:  “But maybe sun, because a flower needs sun to survive?”

In my head: No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

2.       This one occurs on a daily basis.  It is the primary reason I am insane:

Me:  “Okay, guys, turn to page 23, and complete problems 1, 2, and 3.”

Random Student:  “What page do we turn to?”

Me:  “23.”

Another student:  “What problems do we do?”

Me:  “1,2, and 3.”

One minute later…

Yet another student: “What page?”

Me: “23.”

Other student, who, for the record, wasn’t talking, just staring off vacantly into space as all this was going on:  “What are we doing?”

Chorus of angry classmates: “Problems 1,2, and 3.”

Student:  “Oh, ok.  What page?”

3.       This lovely gem came from the joys I experienced assistant coaching the middle school track team:

Me:  “400!”

Richard:  “Coach, how far we running?”

Me:  “400, Richard.”

Richard:  “What’s a 400?”

Me:  “One lap.”

Whistle is blown.  One lap later, I get set to blow it again:  “800.”

Richard:  “Coach, how far we running?”

Me:  “800, Richard.”

Richard:  “What’s an 800?”

Me:  “Two laps, Richard.”

Two laps later:  “200.”

Richard:  “Coach, how far—”

Me:  “200, Richard.  Come on, this is the third month of track.  You should know how far a 200 is.”

Richard:  Blank stare.

Me:  “Half a lap, Richard.  We get math, right?  One lap is a 400.  Two laps is 400 plus 400, so that’s 800.  So if I ask you for a 200…”

Richard:  “How far we running, coach?”

4.       Kevin:  “Ms. Meister, he won’t give me my pencil back.”

Me:  “David, give him his pencil back.”

David:  “It’s my pencil.  Not his.”

Me:  “Kevin, whose pencil is it?”

Kevin:  “It’s mine.  I need him to give it back.”

Me:  “David, give him his pencil back.”

David:  “Ms. Meister, it’s mine.”

Me:  “Look, guys, I’m not your baby-sitter or the pencil police.  Work it out!”

Kevin:  “But Ms. Meister, we called you over here because we can’t work it out.”

5.       Shakima:  “Ms. Meister, is your daughter mixed?”

Me:  “Yes.  She’s bi-racial.”

Shakima:  “So her dad is black?”

Me:  “Yes.  He’s African-American.”

Shakima:  “Mmm!  Ms. Meister got her vibration on!!!”

…. I still don’t know what that means, but it makes my life sound a whole lot more interesting than it actually is.

6.       Me:  “Shaquir, what are you doing?”

Shaquir:  “I’m getting ready for the game.”

Me:  “The game isn’t for hours.  And you’re in English class.  Take your helmet off.”

Shaquir:  “I need to be ready.”

Me:  “No one is… um… trying to tackle you right now.”

Shaquir:  “I gotta get my mind right for the game.”

Me:  “And the helmet helps do that?”

Shaquir:  “Yep.”

Me:  “Take the helmet off.”

As always, thank you for reading.  If you are a teacher, thank you for what you do.  If you are a student, remember... your teachers are people too.  We do what we do because we love you.  We want so much for you.  More, sometimes, than you want for yourselves.  We are on your side, even when it doesn't feel like it.  Every time you were dissatisfied with a grade?  We gave it to you because you could do better.  Because we knew you would do better.  Because when you earned what you were after for the first time, we knew what that would mean.  How that would feel.

May you always find success in whatever it is you do.  Whatever your passion is... follow it.

And don't be discouraged when the crazy follows you around from time to time.

Because if crazy is finding you?

Well, that's a surefire sign that you're alive.  Because cray cray is everywhere.

And thus ends my homage to teaching.  Well, in this blog post, anyway.  May the work I attempt to do in this next chapter of my life live up to the quality of the people who give it their all each and everyday.  Thank you, teachers.  Thank you, co-workers.

And most especially, thank you students, particularly those of you whom I had the privilege of teaching.

Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid

In the name of love (or pride, or a desire to not lose, or any other number of things), people can do some pretty stupid stuff. 

Case in point:  Yesterday, my family and I were spending some quality time at Martinak State Park, a lovely wooded area resting on the Choptank River, where Rashieme and I plan on getting married this summer.  This quiet state park features trees and shade and sunshine and trails and, to my daughter's delight, several playgrounds.  We were checking out each one as we had spent the day with Shieme's mom and were now just a few hours away from a meeting with a local restaurant owner, whose establishment we were checking out as a possible venue for a reception location.  Knowing we were having this meeting, I had opted to wear a sundress and cloth slip-on flats.

Being that I was dressed up, I opted out of Rashieme and Kaliah's game of tag at the first playground, which began with hysterical laughter and blissful joy and then eventually ended in tears because, much like her mommy, Kaliah does not like to lose.  We ventured on to the second playground which featured a tall spiral slide that looked promising, but unfortunately was not all that slippery, and Kaliah slid down with a dismal look on her face that made it clear that she'd rather be practicing fractions.  So off we went to the third location, where we discovered a completely in-tact piece of playground equipment that featured several different entrances/exits:  slides, monkey-bar style extensions, a rock climbing wall, etc.

Kaliah immediately came up with the idea of an obstacle course.  She explained that we would have to each take a turn using each of the "exits" and whoever could successful exit all avenues of the equipment the fastest would be declared the winner.  I certainly wasn't dressed for it, but what can I say?  One should never underestimate the power of stupid.  I'd like to claim that I did it out of my love for my child and desire to bond with her and spend quality time making memories.

But the truth is, I probably just wanted to win.

For those of you who don't know me, I am stupid competitive.

So her daddy yelled go, and off we went.  On the very first small slide, I struggled to keep my skirt covering everything it should cover, then scrambled back to the steps of the main entrance to navigate the next exit.  Despite my shaky start, Kaliah and I were neck and neck.  My long legs worked to my advantage, as did my height, when it came to jumping from certain points instead of climbing down.

We were maybe two minutes in, both running out of breath, both laughing and scampering about, and I was down to one remaining obstacle.  But first I had to re-enter the equipment.  Seeing that my daughter was already on the main entrance, (the steps), and deciding to go around her and cut in front of her, I opted to climb a short slide instead of race around, putting myself behind her.  As I jumped on the slide and began striding upwards, I immediately realized the error of my ways, as my cloth shoes had absolutely no traction and I began slipping back down, like a surfer skimming a wave.  I tried to stop the momentum, but somehow my legs got tangled up and I went sailing over backwards, falling with a resounding thud, as I crashed down on my legs, back, and shoulder, head clunking down into the stupid wood shavings that always line these kinds of play ground.

"Alright, you're done," Daddy the referee announced, shaking his head as he strode over to help me up.  Meanwhile Kaliah was shrieking in amazement and I was laughing so hard I was almost crying.  Rashieme pulled me to my feet, and both of them went to work brushing the wood chips from my sweater, dress, and hair.

"We've got a meeting in an hour.  'What happened to her?' 'Playground accident?'" Rashieme demanded, rolling his eyes.

"But I was doing so good," I protested.  "I think I was winning."

Clearly, I wasn't.  Not after the Cloth-Shoe-Sliding-Board-Fall.

Lesson Learned:  When you're trying to beat the pants off your kid at some outdoor activity, wear sneakers.

And maybe a helmet.

And something other than a dress with granny panties underneath.

For the record, Rashieme and Kaliah went next.  With the aid of sneakers and pants (as opposed to a skirt), Rashieme beat her by a landslide.  He didn't even need the helmet.

Abort, Retry, Ignore?

So, THIS is gonna sound like fiction:

 

My fortune cookie's message from last night's dinner.

 

Hmmm.

 

So of course the writer in me is thinking:  should this become a True Tale of Everyday Crazy to add to my collection?

 

Or is this a brand new novel idea, ripe with potential?

 

I'll be pondering it on my run.  The run I'm actually going to take.  I'm feeling the need to assure everyone that I am still a runner, mainly because Rashieme commented this morning that he doesn't think I actually plan on running-- rather, he supposes I'll just put on my running clothes, go lie down in the corn field across the street for a few hours, and then pick all the crap off my clothing and return home, acting as if I've just completed an intense workout.

 

Clearly, this is preposterous, as not only do I use an app to track my runs (which no one except fellow runners really care about, so forgive me, non-runner friends, for all the Facebook updates, which were much more frequent during my marathon days, but probably just as annoying now)... but also, I hate bugs way too much to go lie down in a corn field for the sake of pretending to have run.

 



So I'll be actually running.  And thinking about that fortune cookie.

Feel free to share your thoughts with me, too!

Things My Students Say...

So I'm teaching, or trying to, last week, when one of my angels has a light bulb moment.

"Ms. Meister!  Ohmigosh!"  she cries out, throwing her hand up in the air, but excitedly babbling on before I can bother to call on her.

"You know what I JUST realized?" she asks breathlessly, and, once again, before I can ask what, she rushes on, in spite of the fact that we're in the middle of the lesson and what she's about to say has absolutely nothing to do with anything we're learning about.

"You know how come time machines can't be real?  I just figured it out!  No one has invented one yet because, like, if they were already invented, people from the future would be like, totally visiting us all the time, right?  Don't ya think?"

The rest of the class and I are staring at her.  I think, collectively, I could have spoken for us all by saying...

"What?"

She was absolutely glowing in the realization she had vocalized with this epiphany.  I was still trying to figure out where on earth this line of thinking had come from.  It certainly had nothing to do with anything I had been talking about, anything anyone else had been talking about, or pretty much anything to do with anything.

Such is life in the seventh grade.  We should consider, perhaps, retitling my age group:  "6th Grade, Random Grade, 8th Grade."

I should consider, at least, that my student was thinking.  Granted, it had nothing to do with English Language Arts.

Or any other content area generally taught throughout the school day.

But thought did occur.

A random thought, but thinking none the less.

Things that make you go #wow.

The Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive

So it's March, and it might snow again tomorrow through Monday.

I think I speak for most of us when I say, aww, horse poop!

So, how about a taste of summer?  Today's True Tale of Everyday Crazy takes place on a warm summer day, in a kingdom not too far, far away, as we all remember glimpses of sunshine and humidity, and the heavy salt air of the ocean under the blazing heat of a cloudless sky.

The perfect setting for the Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive.

The Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive

            There is a small water park in Fenwick Island, Delaware, that my mother and I frequent with my daughter in the summertime.  It is a fun way to spend the day—lounging by the kiddie slides that will entertain a young child for hours, floating down the lazy river, and, assuming you are a little more adventurous, flying down the two curvy water slides that are the main attractions of the park.

            It used to be that you could select either a foam white mat or a round, yellow air-filled tube to slide on.  In recent years, the policy has been changed.  Now, adults may only slide on the mat, not the tube, and a giant red and white sign proclaims this at the area where you choose your riding device.  I feel that, most likely, I am single handedly responsible for this change.

            It was several years ago, on a perfect, cloudless, sunshiny day, and the three of us had enjoyed a long day of soaking up the rays, drifting down the lazy river, and, for Kaliah and I, riding the slides.  We’d been riding double, because she was only about three or four at the time.  It had been great fun, but, for some reason, I had it in my head that going down solo would be much more exhilarating.

            I was right.  Possibly, a little too right.

            Mom and Kaliah stood near the bottom of the slide, where the riders came bursting out of the chutes and flung into a shallow pool.  I bravely selected a yellow tube to slide down on, climbing the many wooden stairs leading to the top of the slide as quickly as I was able, the air-filled tube lightly tapping against my legs as I made my way to the very top.  Though it was nice out, it was later in the day, and much of the crowd had already left.  I didn’t have to wait very long before the life guard at the top blew the whistle.  I planted my butt firmly in the middle of the doughnut hole and launched myself down the slide.

            What I noticed immediately was that sliding solo was not only much quicker than riding double, there was far less control involved.  Almost instantly, as the tube slipped and slid around corners, the raft began spinning in wild circles.  Though there was no time to really think about it, I automatically began craning my neck to see behind me as I was careening down the slide backwards, and more importantly, I began trying to shift my body weight around in order to maneuver myself back into a forward facing position.

            It was to no avail.

            Though the entire experience couldn’t have lasted more than six seconds, it was a very panicked six seconds, as I twisted my shoulders, dangled my legs, clutched the tube’s handles, and shimmied and shook in every way possible to try to avoid hitting the water backwards (my mother, who, on principle, refused to ride anything more exciting than a merry-go-round, had apparently passed on her irrational fear of riding a waterslide down to me, citing the reason that “she might hit her head on the bottom”).

            Perhaps it wasn’t so irrational after all.

            On about the seventh second, I had managed to reposition myself into a near sideways position, just before the ride ended and the tube hit the water.  I gave one more desperate twist of my weight, trying madly to avoid going in backwards.  I remembered catching sight of my mother, holding my daughter, and watching their eyebrows raise and eyes widen like cartoon characters.  And that was the last image I had before tightly squeezing my eyes shut, as, in spite of my best efforts, the slide spit me out backwards at break-neck speed.

            I’m sure it was quite a spectacle, mainly because my mother confirmed that, yes, indeed, it was.

            As I’d been trying to flip myself frontwards, my legs were sprawled out widely, spread eagle style, and the moment the tube hit the pool, I was catapulted over into a backwards, air-born somersault, flipping over completely (legs still spread wide open as in a cheerleader’s toe touch position, FYI), holding onto the tube handles for dear life, feeling them ripped away as my head made contact with the water and the tube shot out of my hands and sailed through the air.  The pool waves rushed over me as I rocketed head-first to the very bottom, banging the side of my noggin on the concrete floor of the pool, gurgling and gasping and even giggling underwater at the sheer stupidity of the situation as I was bounced back upwards, mass of wet, clumped hair clinging to my face as I sputtered to the surface, welcomed by Kaliah’s “Wow!” and the guffawing laughter of, out of all people, the lifeguard.

            “Mommy did a flip!” Kaliah cried in wonderment.

            “She sure did,” my mother managed to agree, as she was also suffering from a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

            “I hit my head on the bottom,” I choked out, laughing and stupefied.

            “Do it again!” Kaliah urged.

            But alas, that was quite enough sliding for me for that day.  Also, there is absolutely a zero percent chance that I would ever be able to duplicate that accidental feat.

            If someone had been recording that on their phone or camera, maybe I could have won America’s Funniest Home Videos, or, at the very least, went viral on YouTube.

            Or maybe I should just be thankful that my bikini top remained in its correct position, and I suffered no known brain damage, all while managing to give the lifeguard, whom I figured would have seen it all, a story to tell at happy hour that evening.

            You only live once, after all, and if you, my friend, have never attempted a Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive…

            Well, then, sir or madam, you might not be fully living.

 

Mom and I at the scene of the accident.

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.