A Day In the Life, Or What It Feels Like For a Mug

Sometimes, I just go off on a tangent. This would be one of them. And occasionally, I think better of my tangents. This would not be one of them. I give you . . . my mug's day. Yes, people have been clamoring to know how the humble mug spends its day. And in a first ever photo expose, here you have it. It ain't pretty, but it's real life, people.

Pick me! Pick me! Seriously, I'm on top . . . do not go for the Starbucks . . . they are stuck up assholes!

Could you do iced coffee every once and a while . . . it's scalding my insides, dammit!

Sugar?! Really . . . should your coffee match your heart? And clean the spoon. It's been talking about you for days.

Sunlight . . . finally. Wonder how long this will last.

This spot again. I'll be here all week at the rate this bimbo does the dishes. All. Damn. Week.

Wrapping Up 2011, Part 2

So what did I learn from the 365 project? Let's see . . .

• I like yarn . . . lots of yarn photos
• Dave's hands are in many photos
• I fell in love with Kellie Hatcher's Charlie preset around late September
• There aren't as many photos of the Girls because they live in Philadelphia
• My friends make unexpected appearances
• I'm okay with black and white in my 365
• I'll probably do another one 

Here's the video. Nothing earth shattering. Then again, there's nothing earth shattering about me. See you in 2012!

Hiding Matches

Fire . . . it's that element that I don't get. It's heat. It's dangerous. It's changeable. It's beautiful in a sorid way. My brother, when he was younger, had this obsession with fire. He would light matches and watch the flame dance on the tip of the match only to blow it out or drop it when it neared his fingers. Mom hid matchbooks for ages, and you could never find one when you need to light a candle. Birthdays? Most of the time was spent looking for anything to set the candles aflame.

For a while, Dave would purchase the instant fire logs for our old house because it burned in color. I'd wake up with a sore throat that would go on for days, and Dave's response would be, "But it burns in colors . . . it's blue!" Watch any person who's semi-drunk at a bonfire, and they are mesmerized for hours. It's like the most alluring babysitter ever. Watch the pretty flame. It changes shape. Color. Size.

Beyond the dangerous beauty is the real reason to fear fire. It destroys indiscriminnently. You always hear about the large brush fires in California and the people who stay to protect their homes when any rational person would get the hell out because they know that fire truly doesn't give a shit. It's the honey badger of the element world.

It brought a tear to my eye on Sunday

Fire destroyed a friend's livelihood this weekend. The family tavern caught fire when the cook came in to start the fryer. They lost the business and most of the apartments (two were spared). I got her text on Saturday morning, the one were she said she would rather deal with her dying father than the notice she got about the fire. By the time the fire departments got there, nothing could be saved. So now what?

I have a drink chip from the tavern, and I'm not giving it up. I refuse to give up the dream that eventually, I'll be able order a cheeseburger with grilled onions and sauteed mushrooms completed with an order Kelly fries and a few Yuenglings. I'll wait until I can choose the tunes on the digital jukebox. When I can chat with my friend and figure out what the skinny is about the people in tavern. When we can discuss what's going on in our families in details. When we can laugh our asses off at the next person to walk through the doors.

I'm counting on you to get the tavern up and running . . . I've got a drink chip after all.

Cheers,
Jill

The Title Eludes Me

Sometimes, I come up with the title for a post well before I write the damn thing. Other times it comes from part of the post. There was a time when they were just the titles of songs in my iTunes library, which was as easy as pressing play. Truthfully, it was pretty easy, but often times the titles were very confusing if you tried to relate them to the post. But tonight's title just isn't coming to me. Everything seems off.

Everything about this time of year is off. The holidays are done (thankfully), but people are always bitching about the extra pounds. My head is usually thumping from weather related migraines. The students are "rammy," which I think should be a real word. This year's even worse because a colleague died suddenly yesterday morning.

But it's always a depressing time for our family, no matter who you talk to.

Thirty-eight years ago, my brother died. It was an accident, it happened, and it kind of fucks you up in ways that you don't realize as a toddler (I was three) or as a kid or as a teenager. You only realize that as an adult; I finally realized it last year. I've blogged about it numerous times, so I won't go into it again. But it still sucks balls.

So, what's with the broken bank, you might be asking. It was a bank that belonged to Clark, and for some reason, my mom gave it to me when the Girls were little. I kept it in their room even though it didn't go with the theme that I had. I moved it from apartment to apartment, from cribs to twin beds to bunk beds. And guess what? I hated the damn bank. Hated it.

But one summer day, when the Girls were about five, maybe six, they wanted an ice cream cone from the corner shop, and I had no money in the house. The piggy bank, however, had money . . . and god was it hot. I slipped a butter knife and wiggled out a quarter and then a second one. The butter knife went back in to finagle the final two, but I must have thrust too hard, and I shattered the damn thing.

It took a while to sink in that I broke a bank I hated and crying about it, only because it was my brother's bank. And I still didn't know why I had the damn bank in the first place. The Girls got their ice cream after the crying subsided, and I left the bank on the top of my dresser. And then it migrated to the underwear drawer where it rested for years and years and years. Occasionally, the broken glass snagged a pair of undies. More than once I cut my hand looking for something in the back of the drawer. Last year, Dave found me crying when I was changing the drawers around, and I told him that some stupid reason, I couldn't throw the fucking thing away. Dave, in his infinite wisdom said, "You don't have to throw it away. But at least wrap it up in something, so you stop cutting yourself . . . because that sucks."

And he's right . . . it does suck.

- Jill

Night and Day, You Are the One

I spent the whole day grading . . . I plan on spending the whole night knitting.
I spent the whole day listening to music . . . I plan on spending the whole night listening to a new Sherlock Holmes.
I spent the whole day wishing I had a new computer . . . I plan on spending the whole night hoping my sister's Mac is salvageable.

Day

Night

Jill, who sincerely hope that Cole Porter doesn't haunt her dreams for bastardizing his lovely tune

Will Knit For Beer

The Lehigh Valley Brew Fest and the New York Sheep and Wool Festival were on the same weekend this year. Lucky for me, I got to do both. Hopefully I can find a Sleeping Festival in the near future because I am lacking in that department. Enjoy!

Insert funny goat sound here

Gnome Homes

 Will Knit For Beer from Jill Greenwood on Vimeo. Music: "Sick Of Myself" by Matthew Sweet

Jill

It's Friday & I'm In Love: Back-to-School

Dear Erika -

So this isn't a "traditional" Friday post, but hear me out. In a week or so, your life will change pretty much forever. And in the tradition of being a good big sister - much better than the one I was growing up - let me offer some advice about back to school and what it will mean for you and the Boys, both from a parent's perspective and as a teacher's. If the list is too long, jump to the end for the "talking points."

My desk is kind of like my home away from home - it's filled will all sorts of crap

• The first day will be brutal. Never underestimate how much sleep you will need the night before and how fleeting it will be. When you walk into the classroom, because I am assuming you will, be prepared for Cooper to let go. I'm serious . . . he will let go of your hand and walk away. And you will be there wondering what to do next. If you are like me, you will be inconsolably crying and trying to figure out if other people have noticed. They have and so has Cooper's teacher. The beauty of this is, she's seen it all before, but you still need to turn and walk out the door. Don't wait for Coop to turn around and wave like they do in the movies . . . it doesn't happen. 
• That first afternoon? It might be brutal, too. He might not want to share what he did. He might not be that interested in school. He might not want to go back. But most likely, Coop will be tired as hell, so let him watch some Phineas and Ferb and be done with it. Because he's tired, that bedtime will come earlier than normal . . . and you will thank him when he goes to sleep. 
• While he's in bed, you will have a shit-ton of paperwork to do. Fill out this form, read this crap, send back this copy but not that one . . . it's mind numbing, sweetie. However, his teacher probably went to a lot of trouble assembling that information in to one nice and tidy little packet. Return it to her the next day in the same nice and tidy little order. 
• Speaking of his teacher, present and future, this person will see Cooper eight hours a day for five days a week. She only sees this side of him: the side that sits in a desk or plays with his new friends or won't stop talking no matter where she tries to move him. She doesn't see the Cooper who laughs at Becket's silly jokes or snuggles on the couch. Truthfully, that's fine because you don't see the Cooper she does. Some kids are different at school than they are at home, but don't think that he is the same in both places. 
• At some point in his academic life, Coop will have a teacher who doesn't "get" him. He might come home and insist that his teacher hates him and nobody else gets in trouble and he's being picked on. Chances are he's 99.9% wrong. I've taught over 1,000 kids and can honestly say that I've never hated a single one. Sure, there were unmotivated ones or kids who just could have cared less where they were but actually hating a kid? Never happened. Kids sometimes can't figure out what is going wrong at school or what role they have in the situation, so they look at the adult and can't figure out why Mrs. So-and-so doesn't fix the problem right away like Mom does. That failure, real or imagined, gets translated as "she must hate me." Trust me, there are tons of kids I just didn't "get" . . . chances are they didn't "get" me either. 
• If Coop is riding the bus, you know darn well what goes on when kids are on the bus. Nine times out of ten, the bus driver will keep the kindergarteners away from the "big" kids, but Cooper may hear words he never heard before. Then again, with me as an aunt, he's heard them all before . . . but nobody will be there to remind him that this type of language isn't acceptable from him.  

The first day of school is exciting for everyone . . . but so tiring

 
• Let's say that you need to contact Coop's teacher. Find out from her what her preferred method of contact is. If it's email, use it but don't abuse it. If it's by phone, don't expect an immediate response, but if she doesn't call back in 26 hours, call again. If it's in writing, for god's sake, make sure you write it on a clean sheet of paper . . . not on the back of a Target receipt. You really don't want to be that parent. Trust me. 
• Probably right before Thanksgiving, you will need to have your first parent-teacher conference. Undoubtedly, they are the most nerve-wracking thing you will have to do in a long time (hell, they even put PAP smears to shame). You'll feel like you are ten and being called down by Sister Mary Margaret for something you know damn well you didn't do. Here's a little secret: as much as parents dislike conferences, teachers dislike them even more. At least 25% of our appointments don't show up, even though reminders were sent home on numerous occasions. Probably that same amount of parents never even bothered to make an appointment . . . and those are the parents we really wanted to see. So sign up for a conference, be on time, smile and ask questions, and leave Becks at home. As cute as he is (and he is cute), the conference isn't any place for him.
• If you want to get his teacher a small present for Christmas, please stick to this list: gift cards, gift cards, gift cards. Don't buy a candle (too many to count) or a Christmas decoration (too many to count) or send in homemade cookies (she might have an issue eating homemade food from students . . . many of us do). Buy a gift card, pop that baby in an actual card, and attach it to a small ornament. If you insist on buying a present, you can never go wrong with books. Think about what Cooper has brought home and buy a book along those themes. But go with the gift card.
• At the end of the school year, and it comes way way too fast, sit down with Cooper and ask him what he liked doing best. Write it down for you to keep, and then write his teacher a letter thanking her for everything she did this year. All too often, teachers feel as if the world is out to get them. We turn on the television and every day it is the same: teachers and education suck. Really, we don't, but we get it. However, every teacher worth his or her salt wants to make a difference for the better for students. And all too often, we don't think we are. These kinds of letters are few and far between, but they are probably the most cherished gift any teacher will ever receive. I couldn't tell you what Christmas present "Michelle" gave me, but I can quote you the "thank-you" letter she wrote me word for word some five years later. So,write that thank you letter and include what made the year special for Coop (and you).

Olive thought she was going to school . . . she's going on a trip soon, but not in a suitcase

 So, to recap with the talking points:

• First day: let him go (and don't wear mascara).
• First afternoon: give in on the television a little.
• That evening: do your paperwork and send it back immediately.
• Home Cooper is different from School Cooper . . . repeat.
• Mrs. So-and-so is probably not a meanie; she just has 26 other children who need some TLC, too.
• Bus = bad language and behavior, but he'll be fine.
• Find out how you should contact the teacher and stick with that method. 
• Parent-teacher conferences aren't fun for anybody.
• Presents? Gift cards. 
• When you reach the end,  write a sincere thank you to the teacher. It might just make her year.

That's it . . . I'm sure I forgot something, but you know how to reach me and I'll tell you the truth, completely unvarnished. I don't envy you that first day. The Girls never saw me cry, but I don't remember being led from the door, wiping the snot from the tip of my nose. Yup, I was that mom. So not cool.

Love,
Jill

Thorn In My Side*

The Internet is an amazing place. You can translate just about any amount of text from English into another language - even Klingon. You can look up the #1 single on the date that you were born. You can even find a calculator to tell you how many days have passed between events. I know, I know . . . I could do this by myself, but quite frankly, why would I want to? Today marks my 6940 day married to my husband; translation . . . 19 years.

Maybe it doesn't seem like a lot, but I happen to think it is a rather big deal. We got engaged when we were 20, pregnant with what we thought was one child. Surprise . . . there are two kids! Good job! And yet, we got married anyway, and here's the kicker, we stayed married. I'm not saying it was easy - not by a long shot.

If the Girls come home in a few months to drop the same bit of "good news" on us that we did with our parents, I don't know how I would react. Seriously, who gets married at 21 and has people look at them thinking, "Those kids are going to make it." A good percentage of the folks at our wedding probably thought the exact opposite, but I guess Dave and I just figured we could make it work. And after 6939 days, I think I might be ready to admit that I was right.

I love you honey . . . thanks for the past 6940 days (and the new bag)! Here's looking at another 14, 940 plus days!

- Jill

* I always consider "Thorn In My Side" by The Eurythmics to be our song. It was the first song on our "mix tape" that I played at our reception