Erma

June 11, 2018

I have regrettable insomnia. Nearly every night between 3 and 5am, I'm up. Call me.

Tonight/this morning, my son and my dog are both snoring beside me. I honestly love the sound. When Drew picked the dog up from the foot of the bed and slid him between us, I was particularly amused. And now Oscar's hot breath, at 4:45 am, is charming.

To fill the moments of the middle night, I decided to read some Erma Bombeck. Here are some gems that make me think we could have been best friends:

Housework can kill you if done right.

No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.

Cleanliness is not next to godliness. It isn't even in the same neighborhood. No one has ever gotten a religious experience out of removing burned-on cheese from the grill of the toaster oven.

When humor goes, there goes civilization.

If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it.

My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.

Thank you, Erma. Just when I think I'm off the grid, I know at least one other person was once there, too.

The Fridge Pics

June 10, 2018

I'm getting a new fridge today. The old one leaked and over froze and also stopped keeping stuff cool. That's a problem. 

My fridge is covered with pictures. As I dismantled the montage of my life this morning, I took stock of what has comprised my kitchen landscape: my children, their awards, their pals; my parents; the day we got this house; the day we got Oscar; my best pals at happy happy moments; former students; me holding my best friend's first born; the ultrasound of my Drew. There wasn't enough room on that fridge for all the people I love.

You know what? A crowded fridge door is about the best blessing. I don't take it for granted. 

Nor will I take for granted a refrigerator that works.

Not Today Satan

June 7, 2018

I woke up to the news that Anthony Bourdain had taken his life. I had always thought he was arrogant and talented, and I'm sorry about this. I'm sorry about Kate Spade. As a front row spectator and near victim of Mom's suicide, it makes me very sad.

But life does go on. Because I lived, I got to have McDonald's between ballgames this morning with my Dad and Drew and I got to see a very large older man in a tank top that read "NOT TODAY SATAN."

I also got to advise my father that if he EVER wears topsiders, black socks, and camo shorts to read his paper at McDonald's, I will commit him. He thanked me.

He went on to describe some horrible woman he once knew who should be riding a broom.

Sometimes I think I'm being filmed.

Oh...with all the debate love

June 6, 2018

I was a high school debate coach. A public high school. In the midwest. We were competing against fancypants private schools, wealthy to-the-max districts. I had kids in such poverty my father and an assistant principal (and dear friend) and I took him out of a SHED from which he was living. 

We beat them all. The fancies. The privates. The folks with lots of coaches and no bureaucrats on steroids to make everything 1000x more difficult than it needed to be. Golly, do I seem bitter?

I'm not breaking my arm to pat myself on the back. I have colleagues who have done so much more. But tonight I ran up on this pic. It was a holiday party with my squad back in the day in my back yard.

I don't wish to return to those times. They were hard. But I wouldn't give them up for anything. I loved these kids. A lot.

We had so much fun. That's what matters. They learned. We laughed. Done. ❤️