... until the need to kick, bite or cry has passed.
There are a lot of people I would like to kick. Or bite. Or punch... so I might be here a long while. Be well.
0 Comments
This is an unfinished thought. I wasn’t going to post today because I can’t quite get my words in order but Husband guilt/nag/dared me so this will be unfinished but it will be posted. So there.
I start working with a new group of kids today, teaching theatre basics in an afterschool program at a school that’s under threat of closure. There’s nothing like the fear of failure to inspire a creative workspace for children. NOT. It’s frustrating that in this day and age, seeing the creative arts as an essential part of the learning process is still an anomaly – especially when schools and children are judged on test scores. Like theatre doesn’t enhance problem solving, language and independent thought and…. Ugh. I could go on but that’s not what this blurt is about… read this if you want facts Part of my teaching plan always includes a brief discussion about the rules for class, things we should and shouldn’t do to have a happy learning experience. I usually write a few key ones down and ask them to add to the list, often having them write them down (enhancing language, spelling, problem solving, independent thinking etc...) My basic rules are to listen, follow directions, play safe, respect yourself and others and my favorite, make good choices. Simple rules that cover a broad range and, when added to by the class, form great boundaries for a creative class. This year, I started adding the consequences to the list and having them expand on what those consequences might be. I find that kids don’t often seem think about what might happen if they do whatever it is they shouldn’t. I don’t have a solid reason why. Could be the lack of positive influences and the need to get attention, regardless of how. Could be the lack of parenting parameters or could just be that the consequences for bad behavior just aren’t as dire as they were when we were children. Nothing says ‘make a better choice’ than the threat of a beating from a nun. All I know is that while I was lying awake at 3am thinking about the list I had to write for class today and I realized I’ve not been applying the basic classroom rules I’m asking them to follow to my own life. I have thoroughly disregarded the whole ‘respect yourself and others’ and ‘make good choices’ rules… .... And that’s it. That’s all I have formed in my brain right now - that I have a problem with respect and choices and knowing my own worth. They say admitting you have a problem is half the battle… Yeah. BULL!!! That half isn’t doing a thing to fix the problem or writing a blurt… My mother wasn’t the greatest cook. Not that she was dreadful, mostly that she wasn’t interested in doing much more than putting nutrients into our systems, sadly a talent I have inherited. Food was made to be consumed, often with whatever she had on hand. To this day, I HATE ginger because she discovered that a large ginger root would last her ages and she could - should not have!!! - but could put it in everything. As a result of my mother’s lack of culinary genius, my brother and I became experts in the chew-deposit-in-napkin-while-she’s-not-looking eating technique. And the following excuse-yourself-to-the-bathroom-to-flush-it-down-the-toilet, which always worked unless there were multiple bathroom visits at which point our bowel health would be questioned and no one wanted that. When that happened, we’d revert to the “Could I get some more milk?” and make sure to pass the garbage on the way back from the refrigerator. We drank a lot of milk. We’ve also both always been very good about taking out the garbage. I bring this up because Wednesday, this massive Red-tailed Hawk landed on squirrel in our backyard and proceeded to rip him to shreds for lunch. My somewhat productive day shot to hell, I spent the next few hours watching him eat, then hop/fly squirrel remains all over the yard until he found a perfect spot to “hide” the carcass. Perfect spot for him. The fallen rotting tree branch within the boundaries of Tigger the Dog's electric fence was not a perfect spot for me. Mr. Hawk then proceeded to perch in the crook of a tree above his spot and spent the rest of his time with us cleaning his bloody talons and threatening to kill me with every look in my direction. Seriously, his stare said “I will cut you if you even think about coming closer into the yard.” I didn't. I like my face the way it is. Here’s my dilemma: It's two days later and I have a dead squirrel at the bottom of the garden. Well, really a partial squirrel; head, back legs and tail, at the bottom of the garden. At what point can I remove squirrel bits and Tigger the Dog temptation and not get cut to shreds by a pissed off Hawk looking for leftovers for breakfast? And really, shouldn’t this be Husband’s job? Tigger the Dog is his dog and his responsibility should she eat three day old shredded squirrel bits and need a quick visit to the doctor. Or if the “Don't mind us, we’re just passing through” coyotes decide that this a good place to hang out because of the free eats. Or if the “I have a gun and like to shoot it at wildlife while wandering the neighborhood in camouflage and night vision goggles in the dark of night” neighbor comes through and mistakes Tigger the Dog for something wilder and less wimpy, we’re going to be down one dog and up an obvious trauma Husband won’t address or seek therapy for... Life was so much easier when we had napkins to put the icky food into and a plumbing system that could handle the waste... Pictures by Husband. Blurry edits by me. Note squirrel legs in full rigor on left side of Hawk and full "I will cut you!" stare thrown in our direction while he's ripping/eating guts from said squirrel. Not boring!
Okay – enough about my emotional naked journey, let’s talk about what a freaking klutz I am. Last night, when attempting to carry something downstairs, I took a big step off the last step that wasn’t the last step, landed awkwardly on the actual last step with just a bit of my heel, all the weight from the anticipated ground landing went into my knee and ankle, twisted my foot downward and I slammed headfirst into the wall – still holding my box by the way.
Was it an epic fall? Nope. Most everyone has miscalculated the stairs and taken that last step thinking they were on ground level. My mother did it once in Ikea and landed face first on the concrete floor. That was awesome. I totally laughed - after I made sure she was okay, of course. So, not epic but, will I feel it for the next few weeks? Oh, yeah, I totally will. But here are the positives about this one. There were no witnesses other than Tigger the Dog. And while she might have silently laughed her face off at me later, she was very loving and concerned as I pulled my forehead off the wall and limped my broken cursing self over to the table put my package down. And I didn't break the box or the think in the box. That's a win, right? I’d have to say my most epic falls are ties between the stage fall and the 20-foot ladder fall. Both had witnesses. Both had maximum injuries. Both are still bothering my body and ego today. And both would have made Lucille Ball and her love for the pratfall proud – minus the actual injuries and the moaning and the permanent 80yr old man shuffle that is. I had a look at the last time I wrote about my talent for doing bad things to my body and I really can’t say it better now than I did then so here’s a flashback post from March 2014: I'D LIKE A DO-OVER PLEASE My body is slowly disintegrating on me. My lower back currently resembles the floor board of the ’79 VW square back that Mom drove when we first moved to the States – rusty with bits of daylight showing through. We had to step carefully into the car so we didn’t fall through and lift our feet whenever we went through a puddle less they be soaked. We loved going through puddles. We’d often shout at her from the un-seat belted back seat, “Puddle! Puddle! Puddle!” and shriek when she would oblige, as our feet were suddenly immerged in muck and mire. It was awesome. The disintegrating back - not so awesome. The back is the result of years of abuse and neglect. Apparently when you fall off a stage at seventeen, while flirting with some boys, and the only medical care you seek is that of the orthodontist because your lip is embedded in your braces, your back remembers. It remembers the time, age twelve, at Brother's Cub Scout meeting when you slipped outside to play hide and seek tag with the older brother of some Cub Scout in the dusky evening, and you ducked out between two cars, got hit by a bicycle going 30mph, knocked into the air and landed in a heap on the street. The stupid Band-Aid you put on your knees and elbows and the ice you put on your concussed head, they did nothing for the discs that still remembers what it felt like to fly through the air and use the pavement as brakes. Your discs might also be particularly upset with the patio you helped Mom and Himself removed one summer. It seems if you use a sledgehammer improperly and follow it up by moving several tons of concrete, your back hates you. Likewise, it hates you if you are up on a twenty-foot ladder helping to cut the massive tree in the backyard and you’re playing a game of “OH MY GOD! YOU’VE GOT A BUG ON YOU!” with Brother and he yells it out from his ladder when you’re at the top of yours and you jerk backward, and fall twenty feet down and land in the brush below, a ladder on you, legs tangled in the steps… Well, when your back wakes up from the shock forced by the concussion the whole body is in, it’s going to remember. And it is not going to be in the least happy about the situation. One day, you’ll do something innocent, like trying to scrub a floor and your back, those discs will scream at you “REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND STUPID?” and up and quit on you. Or your discs won’t completely quit, they will just decide to protest, throwing little spasms and awkwardly timed muscle seizures that generally cause you to walk like an eighty-year old constipated man or cry out like you’re suddenly in labor. My yard with the house half way up the hill – or halfway down the hill, depending on my direction and my mood – my yard with loads of potential has become a mountain of impossible challenges. A simple walk up to the mailbox has become a minefield. One step wrong and Tigger the Dog is going to have to play Lassie and find me help. And the odds of that dog doing much else but whining my face off, are not good. I should probably layer up each time I step outside in case I do fall, can’t get up and have to lie there until I’m rescued from the snow or ice or whatever Mother Nature has decided to throw at us this week. A Band-Aid isn’t going to make this go away. Neither, apparently, is a pill that makes me floppy like the Scarecrow in Oz or a drink that makes me chatty and bouncy and fun. Both still leave me moving like a constipated eighty-year old man. I guess I should be the grown-up I look like get some kind of help. I’m pretty sure that none of this was in the manual of ‘When You Grow-up…’ I’d like a do-over. Please? UPDATE on my emotional nakedness: It went well! I sold eleven pieces – twelve if you count the one Husband wanted and promised to pay me for but hasn’t yet… so ELEVEN pieces!!!
And I only cried once. And that was while I was trying to set up the simple display stand I’d freaking made that I couldn’t put together. Who knew screwing a pipe into a flange could go so wrong so many times? Tears once is not bad for my first time out – though Husband, who was sitting a chair across from the booth watching me, came up to me at one point and whispered in my ear, “You look terrified.” And I was! So. Freaking. Scared! My friend’s husband kept asking if I was having fun. Um, see the above “You look terrified.” statement. I was not having fun BUT it was awesome to have people like my trees as much as I like my trees. One guy came by three times before buying, visiting the two he liked much like one visits a pet at the shelter. Not that I’m comparing my trees to pets that need adopting… but I am. His tree stalking and the woman who bought “the first piece that has spoken to her” for her new home made my day. I was even very amused by all the touching the kids did and the one ten-year-old girl that looked at me as if I were famous as she told me "your stuff is awesome" and that she "wanted to be an artist someday." Squeeeeeee!!! But my favorite part would have to be the woman who took one look at my trees, scrunched her face up in disgust as I could clearly read her “What the fuck?” thoughts and then looked pissed when she realized I was watching her and laughing. I hear you, sister. "What the fuck?" is right! Still don't know how I got from stripping wire to falling in love with my trees to standing outside for eight hours trying to find them happy home but somehow I was there. Your friends and family can make/help/encourage/dare you into the most unusual things. To sum it all up, it was a good day and a totally terrifying day – even with my sentimental family "support" in a pair of earrings given to me by my father, a ring from my mother and a modified game of bingo in honor of my brother, still terrifying. More terrifying than the small plane a friend took me up in a few years back that he had me fly. I thought “I’m not flying it anymore, you are. Just move the levers.” when we were a million miles up in the air was the most terrifying thing I’d experienced before. I was wrong. I thought starting this blog and putting my worst of the worst out into the world for judgment was going to be the scariest thing ever. I was wrong. No, standing for eight hours while people judge your babies, all the while smiling and trying not to let the fear bubble up into tears, now that is petrifying. BUT it is over and I can breathe now and hopefully sleep through the night without panic dreams about copper thieves and milking cows... Below is one of our homemade Bingo cards, (Thank you Brother.) Who'd thunk that a Cowboy hat would be the hardest thing to find at an outdoor event in Nashville? Good times! Now to try and figure out what to do next that will keep me up at night and bring me to the edge of tears often. Because life is short, why spend it bored? |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
Categories
All
|