Overwrought poetry anyone?

Tuesday night in my class we all wrote poetry--thought I'd share my stab at it, if no other reason than it keeps me humble.

This Moment

Right now, right this moment
I sit

A jumble of hope and anxiety
The voices of my sister, mother, grandmothers
Urging me to fulfill unrealized dreams
The past leaning like a ladder against this minute.

I am truth and fiction,
Pretending to know what I don't:
Unwilling to be the dunce in the corner.
Expectation threatening my fractured shoulders.

I've learned no man is an island,
I say "I can only do so much."
I don't believe myself,
But hope for things unuttered, unseen.

I sit
Right now, for this moment.

I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit rock n roll

I was born in the mid 1970's and it wasn't until I was in the 5th grade that I found out that music other than country had been created between the years of 1974 and 1980.

My parents really love music and nearly every memory I have associated with childhood is accompanied by country music. Family vacations? Ray Stevens' "The Streak", or the Statler Brothers' "Flowers on the wall". Home? Anne Murray's greatest hits, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", "Rhinestone Cowboy", and "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys". The first album I ever owned? Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits (along with Billy Joel's Uptown Girl, but we won't talk about that.).

As I got older and entered elementary school I of course found out there were other kinds of music, but it took me a while to discover that not everyone grew up listening to Waylon and Willie, Dolly, Johnny Cash, and the Statler Brothers. There are people in the world who've never heard of Ray Stevens, let alone know all the words to "Get Your Tongue Outta My Mouth 'Cause I'm Kissing You Goodbye!". I found out that other music was written, produced, and performed during the last six years of the 1970's. My father scoffed when I brought this up, telling me, "The only thing worth listening to from the 1970's is country music."

I disagreed. I found that I LOVE disco (sorry everyone, but I do.); Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" is one of my reasons for living. I discovered James Taylor and Carly Simon, Credence Clearwater Revival, and The Clash. I discovered Generation X and Queen, Bowie and the Eagles. I discovered that I loved early Elton John and everything from ABBA. It was a shock to the system, I realized that I could have opinions separate from my father's. As an act of rebellion I declared that I HATED country music.

For a few years I was a music snob. If it was top 40 I wouldn't listen to it (until Nirvana came along and made radio better for a while. I still miss you Kurt Cobain). I loved Depeche Mode with a complete and utter devotion, along with REM (when Michael Stipe had long curly hair and they were played on college radio exclusively), U2 and the like. I loved KROQ, a pretty famous alternative radio station in Southern California, and the moment when you could finally tune it in on our way to LA.

I made fun of Willie Nelson and told my father that everything about country sucked. He calmly replied, "It's ok, you'll come back." I assured him I would not. He also told me, "Some day, the music that you love now will be country." I was in the middle of my love affair with Sting and replied, "Sting will NEVER be country."

Flash forward a few years later and Sting's releasing some country songs. "It's fine! He's doing this IRONICALLY." I told myself. Flash forward a few more years and I'm just home from my mission. I turn on the radio to hear TOBY KEITH singing "I'm so Happy I Can't Stop Crying" and I know that, once again, my father is right. It would take me a few more years to admit this to him, however.

I then made some allowances for Country-like artists. I fell in love with a singer named Peter Breinholt (Peiter!) and bluegrass band called Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband while in college, but reasoned that they weren't REALLY country. I'd already fallen in love with Lyle Lovett and Chris Isaak, but could, once again, reasonably argue that they weren't, strictly speaking,country.

About 4 years ago I came back to the music of my childhood, Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson first, Dolly next. I found a compilation of many of the songs I'd loved as a child. Every song enveloped me in warmth and sparked memories eliciting such strong emotions that I wondered why I'd turned my back on them for so long. Again, my father was right.

But I had a problem. Most of what is played on country stations is just NOT for me. I love Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw (other than the abominations that are "Indian Outlaw" and "Don't Take the Girl"), Josh Turner, and a few others, but I want to ram people with my car when I hear Toby Keith or Kenny Chesney. I still hate the maudlin and emotionally manipulative country ballads ("If this is Austin, I still love you" and "Alyssa Lies" are two excellent examples), and I just can't get behind those uber patriotic, chest beating anthems that are currently so popular. So, what's a girl to do? Turn to Alt country, that's what. I've been exploring this genre quite a bit and I like a lot of it. My current favorite, hands down are the Old 97's. They speak to my soul and make me want to dance in my seat as I drive to work.

Rhett Miller



the lead singer and resident dream boat of the band is my new unattainable love interest. I mean, how can I resist a man who sings lyrics like, "I believe in love, but it don't believe in me"; or wrote the most truly romantic, yet uncheesy love song I've ever heard "Question"; or makes me laugh out loud because of lines like "Do you wanna mess around? I mean deep down in your bones"; or melt because he's singing about a girl like me with "Big Brown Eyes". Yeah. Old 97's. They're GOOOOOOOOOOD.



And, like me, a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.

Here's the song they wrote about me, 'cause I'm pretty:

This is how I feel today:

(found via CNN.)

I feel. . . (GULP!) pretty?

I have a friend who's reason for everything is "Cause I'm pretty!" example:

J: "Give me that."
Me: "Why?"
J: "Cause I'm pretty!"

Or

Me: "Why should I come down in the middle of the night and pick you up from a bar 'cause you're too drunk to drive home?"

J: "Cause I'm pretty!"

She tried time and time again to get me to add this to my own lexicon. I attempted a couple of times, but I just couldn't say it.

I've always had an uneasy relationship with my physical features. When I look in the mirror my thoughts range anywhere from "How you doin?" to "Oh my goodness, I need to call in ugly to work." AAAAAND because I can't stop looking at myself in the mirror (it's an illness) I sometimes think these disparate thoughts within the same hour. I know, I know, I need help.

What I'm saying is, I've never felt comfortable referring to myself as anything more than "cute", and even that's a difficulty, as I always expect the person I'm talking to to break into hysterical laughter.

Cute's the most any boy I've ever thought I loved has ever attributed to me, and I know, cute aint bad. It's pretty good, in fact. I guess my overachiever nature just wants to wake up one morning (without having to work out or stop eating Cool Ranch Doritos) and look like Lauren Graham.



Or Angelina Jolie.



And it just never ever happens. It doesn't help that I've gained 40 lbs in the past three years, or that I'm always tired and stressed out beyond belief. These things just don't improve a girl's looks, surprisingly.

The thing is, I have a few students this year who sincerely think that I'm pretty hot. Not in a creepy way. Really. Don't report me to the police.

I teach a cute girl, "M" who is model thin and gorgeous. She's also smart as a whip and just a joy to teach. I love her to bits and pieces. Last week, as I was checking her Lord of the Flies notes she said,

"I just think you're amazing and beautiful. Your hair. It's I just don't know. I mean I look at those models in the catalogues and think you look better than them. I mean it."

I didn't know what to say to that. I blushed madly, struggled to hold back tears and said something like, "Ummmm thanks. I appreciate that."

I also have a male student who often tells me something along the lines of "You're looking especially gorgeous and voluptuous today"

And it's all I can do to not say, "Are you calling me fat?"

Even with that, I've got to say that sad as it is for a 34 year old woman to get validation from high school students, these comments have really helped me. They make me think that maybe I am, perhaps, a little tiny bit pretty.

And as far as the whole modeling thing goes, I have to remember the wise drunken words of my friend's mom one New Years Eve to me and my chubby friends,

"Girls never become a model! It's a turrible life."

Oprah is Not my Co-Pilot

A couple of years ago, in a fit of creativity, my brother and I designed a couple of shirts. The ideas were mine, the execution and design, his.

My favorite was a t-shirt that read "Oprah is my Co-pilot". I gave the shirts as gifts to two of my favorite people (I planned on giving them to two of my other favorite people as well, but they live 3,000 miles away from me and it would have required a trip to the post office. I don't do well with that. On a similar note: Meliss, your b-day present is sitting on my kitchen counter. Here's hoping you get it before we're 35!).

It was a joke, of course, but as with every good joke, it was based in reality. I love me some Oprah Winfrey.

Oprah and I have had a long and important friendship.

We've laughed.


We've cried:



We've learned.


She taught me how to avoid being killed by a rapist/killer (NEVER let them take you to a second location). She taught me how to fold fitted sheets (with Martha Stewart's help). She taught me that I like Faith Hill. She taught me how to find a good bra. She taught me that it's ok to want to kill your best friend sometimes when you're traveling cross country together and she insists on singing every song really loud in your ear. She taught me (through Dr. Oz) what my poo should look like.

She encouraged me to


And I'm tryin' O, I really am.

But here's the deal: I think I need a break. Today, I cancelled my Oprah.com membership.

Yes.

I know.

I can't believe it either.

I don't know if the straw that broke this camel's back was the Oprah dvds (which I own), the XM radio station, the Youtube channel, or the "life class" based on this book:


But I found myself groaning when I saw ads for "Oprah's Big Give" instead of planning to watch it with my sister-in-law Jena like I did for "Oprah's Legend's Ball". I haven't watched it at all.

I'm not saying I'm anti-Oprah, I love her too much for that, but I think we need some time apart. To think and regroup. I need to know who "I" am separate from O.

We've had some good times O, it's not you, it's me--Well, it's kinda you.

I'm piloting my own life now, and I like to think that's the way Oprah would want it.

"To Do" Myself In...

I've been really overwhelmed lately with the sheer weight of my many responsibilities. I can't remember the last time I watched a good show on television (Dancing with the Stars just doesn't count even though I love it with my whole unreserved heart. I know it's crap tv, but I love this brand o' crap!) without jumping up and doing something else or worrying about what I need to do so much that I just end up turning it off and getting to work.

So, this weekend, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I reasoned to myself that I was panicking because I was blowing things out of proportion. "I just need to make a list," I told myself, "and schedule everything out. That way I'll see that I have plenty of time to finish everything and I'll see that it's not as bad as I think it is."

The result: I was right. It's not as bad as I thought it was...it's worse. Instead of feeling all empowered and capable like I usually do when I make a list for myself, I had to sit down and have a good cry. Then, I sucked it up, finished grading research papers and got my unit plan done for my Secondary Education Curriculum class. So, two items down, 5,000 to go!!

Here's hoping I make it through without doing this:

The Way of the Corgi

When I got Austen, he looked like this:


and didn't know that I wanted him to pee outside.

Then, he looked like this:



See how his ears are coming up? I called this the flying nun stage. At this point he started to realize that if he peed inside he got yelled at, and when he peed outside he got a treat. He also realized that he liked to bite my neck when I carried him down the stairs to go outside.

Now he looks like this:



His ears are now up (albeit a bit floppy)! Those of you not well versed in the ways of the Corgi might not know it, but this is an exciting day. Seriously. Two of the best things about a corgi and are their alert, expressive ears. Corgis who's ears don't come up get mocked by all of the other corgis. Really. Junior high corgis are known to give swirlies to the floppy eared ones.

Other wonderful features of corgis are their adorable fluffy hineys (dubbed "bummy feathers" by my siblings and I when we were very very young), devious dispositions, and the phenomenally cute way they lay down with their legs stretched out behind them.

However, there's another feature of the corgi that isn't quite as endearing:



AT TI TUDE! This is Austen saying, "Screw you! I'll pee where I want, woman!"

And this one:



is him saying "You're not the boss of me!"

And this:



is me saying, "Oh yes, I am!"

So, yeah, house breaking and training is going GREAT!!