In Remembrance Of...

Today I was lucky enough to be able to celebrate the life of a pretty amazing woman.  While I wasn't lucky enough to have ever had met her, just hearing the stories about her brought a smile to my face and a warmness in my heart.

My husband, Kent, was adopted when he was just a baby.  His birth mom was young, single, and alone.  Her father wouldn't allow his child to remain in the house while pregnant.  She left home, had the baby, and unable to support a child on her own, made what was probably one of the hardest decisions any mother would have to make.  A decision made out of love, out of compassion, out of wanting to give this child the things she was incapable of giving.

Kent was almost 30 years old when he went on his quest to find his birth mom.  His parents were moderately okay with his decision to do so.  As a parent, I can understand the angst his mom must've felt when searching for the other woman that gave life to such an amazing man.  The age of technology hadn't quite hit the world when his search began.  Kent's first stop was at St. Anthony's hospital, knowing he'd been born there.  They led him to the Catholic Charities, who had been the go-between for his adoption.  After spending two months collecting as much information as he possibly could, there was a "break" in his case.  He discovered his biological grandfather hadn't renewed his driver's license, and realized this was probably due to one of two reasons: 1) he no longer drove or 2) he passed away.  Kent was sitting among the stacks at the Denver Public Library scanning through the obituaries on microfiche, with a date of his last license renewal.  When lo and behold he found the name he was looking for.  While his biological grandfather had passed away, it was from that obituary that he discovered his biological mom was alive--as well as three half brothers he never knew he had.

From there he learned for 30 years his biological grandparents lived a mere 10 blocks from his home.  From the home his mom still lives in.  From the streets he played on as a child.  From where he rode his bike and went to school.

With names in his pocket, and forever engraved in his heart, he quickly learned where his biological mom was.  With only two names in the Anchorage phone book matching her's, he called the first one listed.  She didn't live there.  Next, he called the second number.  She was at school.  I can only imagine how his heart was racing, how sweaty his palms must've been.  The emotional tug in his throat that held the tears at bay.  And so he did what any son would do, and began to write her a letter.

She received the letter, and within a month, it was his phone that rang.  When he answered the phone, the conversation was easy.  He met her for the first time a month later--just the two of them, at a steakhouse in Denver.  Kent kept his emotions in check until she handed him the baby hospital bracelet that had linked him to her so many years prior.  Knowing she had held onto that momentum, that piece of him, made the tears well up into his eyes and spill down his face.

And from there it's history.  He met his brothers, and that's exactly what they have become to him, his brothers.

So today as we stood around the "filing cabinet", as Bruce's (one of Kent's brothers) partner Jeff so lovingly calls it, toasting her life with the cheap champagne that she was so fond of, I couldn't help but think "What an amazing woman."  And as they told their stories about their mom--funny, sad, silly, and just talked about who she was--I kept thinking the same thing.  Although I wasn't lucky enough to have ever met her, I am lucky enough to be a part of the lives she brought into this world.

Here's to you, Barbara Nather.

Thanks for being one amazing woman!

1938-2002

Stay Glorious.

There are times in my life when I realize just how much of a Cheesehead I truly am.  Like the time when I just HAD to go to Lambeau Field and see a game to start off the year 2000--that was quite the road trip, complete with a snowstorm.  Nothing like seeing a game in a field of Cheeseheads!  I was in absolute HEAVEN!  Or the time when I decided to get all dressed up in the green and gold--it was in the early '00s and the Packers were playing the Broncos in the pre-season.  I didn't have tickets, and neither did my BFF, but I had to let the world see my Cheeseheadom.  It was quite the day!  Just hanging out with the tailgaters in my green and gold.

When I became a teacher, there was no doubt what the theme of my classroom would be--a Cheesehead's paradise--with a bit of Language Arts crap thrown in for good measure.  My walls are filled with Packer posters, jerseys, bumper stickers, magnets, framed pictures of the great Pack--heck, I even have a GB Packer Mr. Potato Head in my classroom.  It's awesome.  Of course, the flag is hung right above the great Aaron Rodgers.  That's so all my students have to stand in respect to the great flag of ours--oh, and Aaron Rodgers too.  Coincidental, I'm telling you.  

I have Packer undies, socks, sweatshirts (both pullover and zip-up), t-shirts, sweatpants, workout pants, yoga pants, TONS of jerseys, Cheesehead beer holder, Cheesehead, cheese beads, Packers beads, silk PJs, PJ bottoms, bracelets, jackets, even a Packer robe (courtesy of the parentals for Christmas, thank you very much)--I'm talking just a ton of Packers gear.  I rock the Packers gear every single Monday--and when the playoffs begin every year, I wear a different Packers outfit until they lose throughout the entire playoff run.  

So yesterday, when I was getting my nails done at the salon with my friend, Tina, it was no surprise to anyone that knows me that my nails and toes were done in green and gold.  They're my colors this time of year.  It's what I do.  To say I was excited about today's playoff game is an understatement.  I felt good about this game--my team has had an unbelievably strong season.  15-1 record, home field advantage, even a bye in the first round of the playoffs.  They haven't lost at the great Lambeau field since October 17 of 2010--yeah, they are that good.  I felt great about today's game--so sure of their success.

I decided to do something different this year--meet up with a local Packers fan base at the Blake Street Tavern.  I walked in with my husband--complete with Cheesehead, jersey, and rockin' the cheese beads--and saw a huge group of Packers fans.  It was awesome hanging out with a group that would actually be cheering for the same team as me!  Awesome, until the game began that is.  

What the hell happened?  From the get-go nobody seemed capable of catching Rodgers' throw.  Seriously.  There were times when the receiver was WIDE OPEN and still missed the damn ball.  I was finding myself getting agitated--realizing that while nice to be in the sea of green and gold, I couldn't be myself around these people I just met.

When halftime approached, I looked at my husband and asked him to get the bill.  "You sure you want to go?" he asked me and I nodded my assent.  I needed to scream at the T.V., curse like a sailor, and rant like a crazy person.  This was my team and they needed my outrage.  Okay, perhaps not, but I needed to vent and it wasn't going to happen in public.  I do have SOME couth.  

We got into the car and a few minutes after we pulled away the game came back on.  The Packers were having an amazing drive down the field until...FUMBLE and Giants recovery.  As I screamed an obscenity into the air, my husband laughed just a bit.  I glared over in his direction.  "I knew you wouldn't last in there," he said to me with this absolution in his voice that was making me crazy.  "Why would you say that?  I had a great time in there," I interjected.  "No, you can't be you in there.  Screaming and cursing," and with that nodding over to the radio as another horrid play was being announced.  "Please, just get me home so I can yell at the T.V.," I said and started to stare out of the window.  

Getting home didn't provide any other comfort for me as I watched my team fall completely apart.  The defense was horrific, the offense not worth mentioning--just simply could not get the job done.  Disappointing to say the least.  When the clock finally wound down and the final score displayed, complete and utter disappointment set in.  I wanted to feel the high that I felt last year when my team clinched that Lombardi Trophy.  I wanted it to stay where it belonged--where it originated.  Not going to happen this year.

So as the football season came to a close for this Cheesehead, I put on my cheesy PJ bottoms, my cheesy PJ shirt, and my fuzzy cheesy robe.  And with a downtrodden look on my face, I cuddled next to my honey, waiting for this cloud to pass on over my head.  And it will--it always does when my team loses.  Mostly because there's always another game, another season, another year for this Cheesehead to get lost in her love for the Pack!  

Until next year--GO PACK GO!

Those Late Night Talks.

I remember when I first met my husband.  It was January of 2008 when he "asked to be my friend" on a popular social networking site.  He looked harmless enough, and after all, it was just online.  He was one of the few people I met online that wasn't a complete creep.  When he said he wanted to just be friends, that's exactly what he meant.  I loved the way we would email each other every day--just filling one another in on our jobs, family, or a crisis that was developing in our lives.  I remember him telling me that my emails curbed his "Meredith Fix" for the day.  I would laugh, and happy that he was just listening.  We progressed to phone calls, a whopping eight months later--those long late night talks that became my fix.  Late into the night we'd be asking question after question, sometimes with long pauses in-between--contemplating between fact and fiction.  This entire time he never hit on me--not even in the slightest of manner.  And I loved it.  I craved it.  It was nice--no, it was absolutely glorious to have intellectual conversations.  Even though we both fell at different sides of the political arena and completely different sides in the religious arena, there was a respect--almost a validity of sorts--toward the other's point of view.  We could discuss without arguing; argue without belittling.  Never experienced anything like it before.

When we met for the first few times, we became fast friends--real friends.  He was, and still is, the kind of guy that everyone wants in their corner.  He's strong, passionate, intelligent--not a womanizer in any sense of the word.  Even as friends, when we'd hit the gym he'd never check out others in front of me.  When we went for coffee, he listened when I talked, offered advice when warranted, and was a friend in every sense of the word.  And the late night talks continued.

It was amazing the way our friendship quickly blossomed by all those late night talks.  I loved every moment.  It was no surprise that when he finally did ask me out, that I'd have to have a chat after our first day for us to decide whether to date or just remain friends.  I didn't want these late night talks to ever stop.  After our first date at Carmine's, we headed over to Washington Park and had an almost 3 hour conversation.  Just us, the ducks, and the stars.

And those late night talks have continued.  Last night when we lay there baring our souls to one another, it reaffirmed all the reasons I absolutely love him.  I love the way I'm able to talk about sensitive subjects without him shutting down; without him shutting me out.  I love the way he doesn't interrupt me, even when I'm taking one of my ultra long pauses because I'm trying to find the correct verbiage for how I'm feeling.  I love the way he is reflective; the way he is thoughtful; the way he looks at not only his perspective, but mine.  I remember being afraid that our late night talks would only last during the time of our friendship--during the time when we were just starting to date--during the time when we were dying to know every single thing about the other.  And while our late night talks aren't every single night, I know he'd drop whatever he was doing in an instant to have that late night talk with me.  And for that I'm ever so grateful.  He's my husband.  He's my best friend.  I love you, Kent.

Mystery Shopper.

Me in my Star Market smock--1987

Oooh.  Just the name "Mystery Shopper" has always intrigued me.  I mean, who ARE these people?  Coming into different businesses, unannounced, judging everyone and everything in the immediate surroundings.  Oooh.  Scary.

From the time I was little, the mystery shopper was a source of intrigue.  I wanted to be one of these mystery shoppers.  For once, I wanted to be the one doing all the judging and in such a passive way.  I could eyeball, critique, observe and absolutely no one would know.

I remember my first "real" job (not counting the much hated, child labor, illegal act of detasseling corn in good ole' Wisconsin) at Star Market in Olneyville--the project, ghetto, just yuck part of Providence.  Dressed in my bright blue smock and this god awful green and blue hat thing.  Just horrific.  I was told there'd be these mystery shopper coming through my line--and could be there at any time.  It was always this looming threat that I'd better not screw up or the mystery shopper might just catch me.  Star Market--just saying the name makes me shake my head and smile just a bit.  I was a junior in high school and had no choice but to work.  Most of the "monies" I handled were in the form of food stamps--back then it was like Monopoly money--different tenders for the poor.  People were constantly trying to steal diapers, formula, and cigarettes.  I would be the "bad guy" when I gave them a gentle reminder of the diapers under their cart, under the jackets, away from sight.  I think I got cursed out every day I worked for "catching" the merchandise before it left the store unannounced.

Melanie at BK--1988

From there it was Burger King--this time I was a senior in high school.  We moved from the hood on up to North Providence.  Oh yeah.  I was big time.  This time I donned these magnificent polyester maroon pants, maroon smock, and maroon visor.  Boy I looked good.  There was nothing like the "rich" kids in their Irocs from school coming through the drive-thru to see this wonder--yeah, that was me.  I was told all about the ever impending mystery shopper that could come on in and order a whopper.  I'd best be prepared or else.  Of course this didn't stop me from jumping the counter one afternoon and almost strangling a customer.  Totally not my fault.  See my little sister worked there too.  I worked the 6 am - 2 pm shift on the weekends (both days) and Melanie worked the 2 pm - 10 pm shift.  It was about 10 minutes before I got off of my shift, and Melanie had just arrived.  I was working the counter that frightful day, and was counting my drawer before getting ready to leave.  Melanie was just getting started when this bear of a woman came up to her register.  "Can I help you?" she asked with a voice of innocence and hard work.  "Yeah, get me a shake and make it strawberry."  Melanie rang up the shake and went to make the shake.  Maybe it was because she was just getting onto her shift; maybe she was tired from a late night before.  Whatever the issue, she mistakingly poured a vanilla shake instead of a strawberry.  The woman grabbed a straw, took a sip, realized it was vanilla, wrapped her claws around the cup and proceeded to whip it straight at my sister.  With horror in my eyes, I turned to see my poor little sister covered in vanilla shake.  AT THE BEGINNING OF HER SHIFT!  Oh, HELL no! was my first thought before my body took over.  I leaped over the counter in one move, pushed the woman toward the wall, and enclosed her witch-like neck with my hands.  I don't recall the exact words I used at this moment, but I can tell you that a) she apologized before she left and b) I didn't get fired, thankfully.  When all was said and done, my sister and I traded clothes and I wore her vanilla-soaked uniform home.  Yeah.

And from there I worked at Pawtucket Mutual Insurance, First Community Industrial Bank--both the Denver and Colorado Springs office, ran my own daycare, Dave and Buster's, and Land Title before I became a teacher.  And at each of these jobs there was some form of the mystery shopper.  I wanted the role.  I wanted the POWER.  Hmmm.

So with these memories in mind, I decided to give it a go.  2012 is going to be a trip.  I find myself trying new things--weird things.  Things that I never thought I'd actually do.  I did my first mystery shop during Christmas break.  It was fun.  I was observant.  I wrote this amazing report and got paid for doing things I'd be doing anyway.  The funniest part was when my daughter saw me writing the report--"What are you doing mom?" she asked, confused with my notes about the car wash.  As I explained this "job" that I was doing, her eyes just lit up.  "Can I go next time, mom?  I want to do this!"  I couldn't help but chuckle just a bit.  The mystery shopper just might be hereditary...

Honey Badger

As I'm sitting here watching the BCS Football Championship, the announcer keeps calling one of the players "Honey Badger."

"Babe, did they just call that guy Honey Badger?" I asked, clearly clueless about college football.  As everyone in the free world knows, I'm all about the GB Packers--basically, no other team is worthy of my cheering, loyalty, or fanaticism.  The reason I had to ask this question is this past year, as I headed into my 9th year of teaching, another fellow teacher shared the most hilarious video on YouTube of this honey badger.  It was seriously ridiculous and had me laughing all day.  Even now when I think about it, I can't help but chuckle just a bit.

And so I learned there is a real Honey Badger and he plays for LSU.  It's a good thing this guy is a football player because if he weren't there's no way he'd wouldn't be teased incessantly with that name.  Seriously.

P.S.  If you haven't seen this most ridiculous clip that exists (and yes, it's profane for those of you that are insulted by vulgarity) here's the link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIyfCtYQz6s

Back to School, Chica.

There is nothing like the excitement that the new school year can bring.  There's this giddiness that I feel ever single year, as I anticipate the new group of kids that I'm about to meet.  Each year, without fail, I have the same nightmare--and let me tell you it's a doozy.  My dream consists of me walking into my 7th grade classroom only to be met by a group of kindergarten students.  I mean, oh HELL no!  Panic sets into my chest as I try to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with them.  In this nightmare there are tears (from them), really crappy teaching strategies (from me), and I'm always lining them up in the hall making them hold hands.  After the first ten minutes, I've run out of ideas.  I always wake up as I'm attempting to teach them "1 + 1 = 2".  Just a nightmare.

I started getting the nightmare again last week, knowing that I'd soon get my classroom again.  For those of you that don't know, I've had a student teacher for the last couple of months.  He's now merrily on his way, in hopes of securing a teaching position down the road.  So on Monday night, as I scoured over my planner (I did get planned out for the next 9 weeks), I knew there would be no way I'd fall asleep.  And I didn't--even after taking a Tylenol PM.  Yeah, not even that worked.

Monday morning I was wide-eyed and bushy-tailed at 4 am.  I got a whopping 4 hours of sleep.  Knowing there was no way I'd get back to sleep, I got up and took a nice, long shower.  By 6 am the dog was fed, dinner in the crockpot, kids up, and I decided to head on out the door.  I was at school 10 minutes later--wishing the kids were there.  But no, they wouldn't be arriving for another 1 1/2 hours.  I was a bit anxious to get there...  I wrote my agenda on the board, prepared their handouts, and sat at my desk to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  By 7 am, a couple of my colleagues had arrived--I grabbed another cup of joe and waited some more.

FINALLY, after what seemed like an eternity, my students began to arrive.  I couldn't understand why their excitement level wasn't at the same as mine.  I was giddy, excited, couldn't stop smiling--practically singing my way through the day's lessons.

What can I say?  I love my job.  I love my students.  I love what I do every single day.  And I missed it so much when I had to let go and have my student teacher take over.  Last night I got ready for bed, was absolutely exhausted, and still could not fall asleep.  This morning I found myself, once again, at work before the sun even thought about coming out.  And I waited at my desk for my room to fill with the sounds that only 12-years-old can make.  It's bliss--absolute bliss.

So tonight, as I'm sitting here watching my daughter cheer and typing away on my MAC, I'm hoping that I get some sleep tonight--although tomorrow's lesson IS friggin' awesome and I'm so excited to teach it that I'm afraid I'll once again be tossing and turning, just waiting for the morning to arrive.

The Hamster Wheel

I love the new year!  I love the way everything feels as though it can just begin again and cleanse the plate, so to speak.  On the 31st of December, my husband and I finally got our booties back to the gym.  Believe me when I say it was desperately needed, as we have been avoided the gym for way too long...about a month or so.  Yeah, you know how that goes.  Needless to say, on the 31st I had no problems getting on the good ole' hamster wheel.  There wasn't a line; every machine was not in use--as a matter of fact, it was a bit nice.  I was able to get in a nice, good, strong workout--the kind where I'm sweating up a storm and down my entire bottle of water.  I love those workouts!

Every other day we interchange between cardio and weights.  On the 1st of January I was a bit worried.  After all, resolutions have been made.  We decided to hit the gym over by my parents' house.  Granted it was before noon, but once again no issues with the weights.  Every thing I needed was neatly on its little rack in the section of the gym that's all free weights.  It was nice.  No, it was more than nice.  It was awesome!  I didn't have to go running around the gym trying to find the match for the one that I needed; there was no looking high and low trying to see where the 17.5 pounders were.  Nope, none of that.  Everything, EVERYTHING was in its place.  Nice, huh?

And then there was yesterday.  January 2nd.  When all the "I'm going to lose weight this year" wannabes entered the gym.  The ENTIRE section of hamster wheels was taken.  THE ENTIRE SECTION.  I mean, really.  I've been a gym rat for SEVEN years, and every single damn year it's the exact same thing. January sucks for me and the gym.  Not due to motivation.  Not due to a resolution gone astray.  No.  January sucks for me and the gym because suddenly all the gym rat wannabes come crawling out of every crevice imaginable and plant their stake on my territory.  Not cool.

When a hamster wheel was finally opened, I was squished between the "he's going to die at any moment, but God bless him, he's still going" guy and the "my magazine is more important that this workout" chick.  The guy to my left was wheezing so hard that there was a moment when I almost asked him if he was going to be alright.  I was seriously concerned.  Of course, the gym rat in me wanted to smack him upside the head and tell him to get the hell out of there--his wheezing was a distraction and god forbid he keel over--I was SO NOT about to help him.  Not because I'm mean or heartless, and those that know me can attest to this--I just can't stand anyone who appears to be ill or injured in any fashion.  It frightens me.  And the chick--did she seriously think she would lose any weight at a whopping 2.0 miles per hour?  Please.  Ridiculous.  And taking up a valuable hamster wheel for what?

So today, as I rolled into the gym and saw the weight section completely crowded, I knew that my workout would suck.  I stayed, did five leg machines, and got the heck out of there.  I cannot WAIT for February--when all these wannabes get back to their couches and all the equipment, once again, becomes mine.