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.

When Life Gets In the Way

There was a time in my life when I believed that stress didn't exist. I even was dumb enough to say that to a group of people. I wasn't incredibly young; hell, I think I was in my mid-30s and Lord knows I had encountered my fair share of stressful situations: having children while still in college, finding out that one baby was really two, coming out of college in a recession, applying for Welfare . . . all pretty stressful. Still, I never really felt it.

But lately, stress is becoming a little more known in my life. Last year, several people commented, "You look like you've lost weight," which is always nice to hear. However, I knew it was coming from lack of eating properly. These days, I'll eat sometimes to stay awake if I am doing something that needs to get done . . . which isn't a good idea. Knitting has always provided a kind of stress relief for me. Even that, these days, is compounding the stress that I feel. The night before Thanksgiving, I decided that it was high time to finish one of my sweaters. I had plans to wear it to school the next week, and I knew that I needed to finish the sleeve . . . that's right, one little sleeve. I picked up the stitches but felt that something was wrong. See, on the other sleeve, I remembered the number configuration, and this sleeve was not the same. After some "heavy math" and questioning Dave about my calculations, I discovered that I had fucked up this sweater AGAIN. Seems that this time, instead of felting the damn thing, I put too few stitches on waste yarn for the sleeve. If you are a knitter, then you know that this type of thing is fixable by doing one thing: ripping it out. If you aren't a knitter, then think of something that you can't fix save for starting all over. Note that I said AGAIN. I won't bore you with the details, but you can read all about it here.

After a minute of dumb-founded confusion, I started crying. Dave came over and held my hand, telling me that it would be okay, but sometimes you just know. The Girls came back from a friend's house about that time. Later, they would tell Dave that they thought my father passed away. No, Grandpa is still kicking . . . but your mother is a knitting failure. I pulled out all of my easy knitting projects and decided to finish them since I needed that kind of "pick-me-up." I took the sweater to my Knit Night just to see what everyone thought. Pretty unanimous: rip the sucker and start over.

Honestly, if wool burned, I would have a pile of ashes right now instead of a bag full of shit.

Jill

Sweeter Than Candy On A Stick

Seventh grade was probably the most challenging year for me as a student. Our dad worked for a company that made tractor trailer and school buses. It was in the process of shutting down the plant in the city where we lived, and we didn't know if he would have a job in the new plant. Needless to say, for about six months, we lived with the "unknown" . . . not a happy few months. During that time, I realized that boys were treated differently from the girls (truly, it had been unknown to me up until that year), that I wasn't that good at math, and that I probably would never be an athlete. Needless to say, Dad was offered a position at the new plant, he commuted for a few months, and then we sold our home and moved to Ohio. I was more than happy to put seventh grade behind me forever.

Fast forward about 20 years . . . I'm an adult, I'm a certified teacher, and I'm offered my first contract: teaching seventh grade English. Turns out I couldn't escape that scourge after all. The only thing that changed? I kind of like it now. I love that my kids come up with something new every day. I love that they are in abject misery because they can't go to the bathroom right that minute and then are in rapture the next when we do something interesting. I love seeing the "look" when they get something. I love the stories. I love them.

Tonight, I am doing something I never thought I would be doing in a million years: singing on stage with a bunch of junior high students in front of their friends and families. For some reason, our choir director asked the students to see if they could convince female teachers to sing "Lollipop" (the Chordettes version, not L'il Wayne's opus). Two of my girls from the literary magazine that I run asked if I would join in. For these two, I can refuse nothing. One of them has such a bubbly personality that you can't help but smile and laugh out loud. She wants to be a middle school teacher and will be damn good at it. She has one story after the other, yet I really fear for her. She is in seventh grade, and I never want her to get to the point where she feels like it is all too much for her: the drama with friends, boys acting like boys, school work piling up, life in general.

The other one? She isn't a typical eighth grader. She's a little too streetwise. She's seen too much at 14. She's taken on too much responsibility. She calls me Cherry Blossom because of my water bottle. And yet, she's after school every Tuesday, working on her creative writing and being brutally honest with the papers in front of her. Three weeks ago, she showed up in my first period class with blurry, blood shot eyes. I took her in the hall and listened as she sobbed and poured her heart out. For a change, I was at a loss for words.

She lost a brother in the earthquake in Haiti. Her grandfather was immigrating any day from Haiti, only he died of a heart attack. An older sister was missing in NewYork. And the petty little day-to-day bullshit stuff that adults learn to deal with? Well, it had taken their toll on an already fragile little girl. So, I let her cry. I listened. I offered advice. I walked with her to see another teacher she trusted. We let her cry. And we listened. And we offered advice.

I'd like to say it made a difference and for all I know, it did. But tonight . . . tonight, I swallow my pride and will be singing, "Lollipop" on a hot stage in an auditorium full of god-knows-who . . . all for two little girls - because they really are girls after all -  who make my world brighter. I'll sing off key and snap my fingers in all the wrong places. Because my girls asked me to.

Jill, who promises to take some relevant photos this weekend . . . but this one was the only one from school