I’ve tried and tried and tried, but I just can’t write a decent post right now. There’s nothing tragic going on, nothing of any note, no real problems or excitement or…anything. Every time I sit down to write, I can’t think. I can’t write in WordPress so I try opening a Word document. The blank screen stares at me there, too. Neener neener, English teacher. Who’s the big bad writer now? (My brain isn’t THAT evil, but that’s the gist of it.)

I searched the Internet for writing exercises, thinking that would inspire me. All I got there were suggestions for stupid shit. THANKS, INTERNET. Twitter didn’t answer me when I asked for help with my writer’s block and when I tried to think of what I’d tell my students to do I just wanted to cry. Well, not really. But kind of.

I would tell them to Free write! Brainstorm! Walk away and come back refreshed! Outline! Reverse outline! God, I would hate me in my English class.

So here I am, writing a meaningless, nothing post, making you read all the way DOWN TO HERE with no point at all whatsoever. And here’s a picture of Swanduck, whose adventures are documented on Twitter.

This is Swanduck/Duckgoose. He/she/it loves Cheese Nips, Sunchips and friendly people. He/she/it is of unknown gender, therefore can't be called Gus like he/she/it obviously wants.

I only mention this because I’m interested in what her ideas are about education and her opinions about when and how to change jobs. Over the holidays, Brian – through a series of frightening days – was hired in a different department. He is working for the same company, but on a completely different side of the business. He likes it so far but has an incredible learning curve to overcome and feels like a fish out of water in this new place. Penelope Trunk says risk-taking is important, if not necessary, and that we’re better people for jumping into the deep in. I’m not so sure about that.

I did not get the job I applied for this fall. I wanted to be a full-time professor but the cookie crumbled a different way and now I’m doing the same job I’ve done for the last year and a half, plus teaching on the side. This time, though, I’m teaching a full-fledged, straight up, real live English class – not a remedial one. I don’t talk about my job here very much because, well, I read the Internet. I’m not that stupid. But I’ve been teaching this particular class for a week now and it’s refreshing to have students who already know some of what they’re learning in my class.

For the last 10 years I’ve faced classrooms full of students who have that same learning curve Brian does. It’s hard to show them that there’s a light at the end of the long tunnel, because many times I don’t even know that there is a light in the first place. It’s even harder to convince them that they’re capable of being good college students and that it’s worth their time.

But is it? Penelope Trunk says a graduate degree is essentially a waste of time. What does an MBA really get you now? If you’re competing with a 45 year-old senior manager with 20 years of experience, can you really beat him out with just your education? I don’t know the answer to this, but I do know that my master’s degree alone wasn’t enough to get me the job I wanted. Were there other factors? Absolutely. I feel sure of it.

So this semester will be a busy one, not unusual, but it will require more homework on my part and more thinking on my feet. Good practice for the future, since apparently my education didn’t teach me that.

I’m in a funk, y’all. It’s not a Bah Humbug-y kind of funk, it’s just a fierce wish that Christmas vacation will get here TOMORROW DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN kind of funk.

There’s frustration in the air around here with everyone I know. We’re frustrated that deadlines are passed or attention isn’t paid to them, we’re frustrated that cars or houses need to be repaired, and we’re frustrated that extra bills are coming due right here at Christmas.

What’s a frustrated girl to do? I don’t know, y’all. In the last few days I’ve been trying to come up with some low-cost or free ways to relieve stress and have a little fun while I’m doing it. So far I’ve bought HBO, but that didn’t really up my jolly factor to be honest.

Every night when I go to bed, I think “I hope tomorrow will be better,” and y’all, it’s just not. The end of any semester is always hectic, but this one is particularly so. Reports are due, papers are late, grades haven’t been put in and I don’t have the energy to work when I get home – even though home is the only quiet place I have. Sort of.

Wow, this is depressing.

Next Thursday I will start my holiday vacation and it will run until January 3^rd. We haven’t been out of town all year long, so I’m hoping that somewhere in that 2 week span I can scrounge up some extras to plan a little overnight stay somewhere. I will also be spending my break moving my house back around into some kind of order that doesn’t suffocate me. (Two years ago we rearranged to accommodate my business, but we didn’t do it right, and now we’re stuck under piles and piles of heavy, too-big furniture with nowhere to move and no way to fix it.)

So there you have it. I’m crabby, I’m tired, I’m at a loss for how to get happy again and I’m about to spend the last $1000 I have on car repairs. Santa, oh dear sweet Santa, WHERE ARE YOU?!

Okay, so it’s glaringly obvious I haven’t posted in here in a month or so. The lowdown: I have a job interview tomorrow, I’m trying to juggling my current job with my other job (my small business) and I’m bouncing balls all over the place. It’s also that season where there are parties and obligations that, though my shrink tells me differently, I absolutely cannot say no to. Also, BB and I have been sick – that icky sick where you don’t know what you have, you’re not gonna waste a $65 copay to find out, and if you could just sleep uninterrupted for 4 days, you’d be fine.

Incidentally, you all are fabulous. I have no specific reason for that, other than to give you a compliment so you’ll continue to read. Wish me good vibes for tomorrow at 10am, when I will surely put my foot in my mouth over and over, only answer half the interview questions and be laughed at after I leave the room. Yes, I’ve done this before.

TRUST ME.

The notes for what I’m talking about are below. Apparently I forgot the part where I’m supposed to talk about where I’m from and why I pronounce things the way I do. I’m from right outside of Raleigh, NC, have lived in North Carolina mostly all my life, and that accounts for everything that comes out of my mouth, I’m afraid.

Say the following words:
Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught
And answer these questions:
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?
What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
What do you call gym shoes?
What do you say to address a group of people?
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
What do you call your grandparents?
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?

Here goes. Maybe just laugh quietly to yourself, ok?

Some nights I turn on Pandora and try to choose something soothing, but inevitably I either sing along to the songs, get annoyed with Pandora’s choices or just get annoyed in general that I’m having to listen to something. Other nights I try to meditate, but my mind OH HOW IT WANDERS. There have to be ways to quiet my mind at bedtime. Just before writing this I made a list of all the things I’m worried about or that weigh heavily on my thoughts. The plan, you see, is that this would take all those thoughts out of my head and deposit them somewhere else for safekeeping until tomorrow.

Not so much. That list has 19 things on it. NINETEEN. Granted, some of them I listed twice. Some of them are weirdo health things that are most likely anxiety induced but worry me just the same. Some of them are work related and some are holiday stuff. Yes, YES I AM ALREADY WORRIED ABOUT THE HOLIDAYS. Where will we spend Christmas? What am I getting everyone? Will there be enough money to go around for the entire family? What if there isn’t? What if I can’t convince family members that we should skip gifts this year and do something good for the planet and/or its people?

And then there’s the weird paranoia that I’m not supposed to talk about on the Internet but that has to do with…a word that rhymes with jerk. But not spelled that way, IF YOU GET MY CRAZY SUBTLE CLUES. Which leads me to think about my list of things I need to do tomorrow, and why not just worry about them now instead of waiting until the morning? If I think hard enough about it now surely the answer will come to me, yes? And if I consult my Google calendar 42 times in the next 15 minutes than surely I’ll be prepared for all my appointments tomorrow, yes?

Help me stop the madness, y’all. There’s a yoga class I want to join this week but I am the opposite of flexible, and I don’t have a mat and is it okay to wear pajamas to yoga? Because that’s not so much relaxing sounding in my head. And then I could take a hot shower but wet head in the bed? No way. Milk? I’ll just have to pee more. All the lights out for quiet time? Obviously you’re not listening.

And yes, before you ask, I consume caffeine. Two Coke Zeroes a day at max, and I try really hard to quit at noon. So the solution for tonight is to write it all down right here and hope for the best.

Wish me luck, y’all.

At Ray LaMontagne Monday night in Cary

Right now:

1. There are about 42 half-written blog posts scattered on the desktops of three different computers.

2. I’m coming down off the high of having slept for almost EIGHT HOURS, Y’ALL.

3. One of my best and oldest friends has a brand spanking new baby girl and I am dying to get my hands on her.

4. There is the prospect of spending Thanksgiving (!) with one of my other oldest and best friends.

5. I am loving that I spent Monday night dancing and twirling with my brother.

6. Also loving that I spent all of last week and the beginning of this week celebrating my birthday.

7. (Which included wearing a crown and declaring it “birthday week.”)

8. There are piles and piles of paper on my desk, most of it written by students whose names I still do not know.

9. I need to make some tough choices for the fall, i.e. do I choose The Blathering, vacation with my husband, or a really quick trip to see the baby?

10. My wallet will not let me do anything I want to do; it will only make me do things I hate.

11. I am itching to go back to school but I can’t afford it and I don’t know what I would do once I got there.

12. I am relying on Coke Zero to be my everything.

I am so proud of you for everything positive you’re doing in your life. I get lumpy crocodile tears when I think of the silent pain you must’ve been in for so long, and I wish I had known. But now, NOW!, you are doing yourself a solid and being your own best friend, which is a hard thing to do.

Growing up easy becomes sort of hard later on, doesn’t it? I wonder if you may have discovered this accidentally like I did. One day in college I stopped dead in my tracks, looked around and realized I wasn’t like everyone else. My hard part had yet to come, whereas their hard parts were over. Bastards.

I want to kiss your sweet cherub face and tell you to get a haircut. I want to hear you laugh because it makes me cackle. I want to ride in a car with you while you make me listen to some damn band I don’t know. Mostly I want to hug you and promise never to let go.When you pick up the phone to call me, you can bet I’m on the other end, dialing your number. (It usually happens just that way, doesn’t it? So weird.)

You are my new hero. You should probably know that I have a lot of heroes, but you’re new on the list and automatically you’re moving to the top! Congratulations! You and I are very similar though, so you should be warned of my steady non-hero status.

I love you and I want to hug your neck something fierce.

My mother bought me a new bathing suit from the mall in the town we were visiting. I stood in my dad’s apartment, in the hallway between the home office and his bedroom, showing the suit to my parents and my brother. Then someone mentioned that it was too snug, or it didn’t fit, or you’re too big for that, aren’t you?  We can’t have you looking that way when we visit the country club for the first time, you know.

In 9^th grade I wanted to wear Levi jeans and short shorts. My thighs, however, were too large and so instead I got Lee jeans. Everyone knows Lee jeans are for LOSERS. But they fit the curvy girl whose normal-if-not-small ass isn’t plank enough for Levis. Instead of short denim cut-offs like the rest of the girls had, I got to choose my outfits based on khaki, black, navy or white Bermudas. Those, see, covered up the thighs.

In 10^th grade my mother bought me a beautiful black dress, my first cocktail dress, with pearl buttons down the front and a scalloped sweetheart neckline. I got my first pair of black cocktail heels and I wore my hair in curls. I looked beautiful. But not long after that night with the boy I liked, a neighborhood kid pointed at my calves and asked me why they were so floppy.

And of course, the very last summer I was a camp counselor, two hometown girls were campers that same year. They were about 7 or 8 and I passed by them one day on the way to the dining hall, where they were pointing and giggling in my general direction. I knew these girls and babysat them at home for years, so I walked up and ask them what they were up to. They looked frightened and then one pointed at her friend and said, “She wants to know why your legs blew up.” Horrified, I asked them exactly what they meant by that and then sent them on their merry, sobbing, ashamed little way. I will never forget that moment and I feel sure that they won’t, either.

That same year, a friend called me on summer vacation. My brother answered the phone and yelled to me, “Gallon-size thighs! Somebody’s on the phone for you!”  My friend heard it and reminded me of it years later.

Those are my formative memories of body image. Of course, my mother sat me down far earlier than all of this to explain to me that, despite the fact that my teenage acne was normal – if not mild – we would still be going to extraction appointments at the dermatologist. She didn’t want my childhood to be marred by the memories of a bad complexion. She wanted my childhood to be perfect.

______________________________________________________________________________

Now when I talk about my shape or figure or giant ass or rolls and rolls of stomach, I turn it into everyone’s favorite joke. Don’t mind the hippo over here! Or, and this is my personal go-to: y’all, am I as big as THAT LADY over there? My friends, bless them, always roll their eyes and say, “Elizabeth. Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

We all know how my reality TV addiction can be, so it’s no surprise that  these two combined moments that have just come back to haunt the teenager I was.

Stacy London from What Not to Wear always figures out the really insecure girls and what their deal is before even they do. Did they just break up, or are they a haggard mom with too much on their plates? Sometimes she’ll stand in the 360° mirror and look at a woman and say, “Do you think you’re beautiful?” Oh, c’mon, Stacy. Isn’t the obvious answer always no?

On Celebrity Rehab this week, the horse trainer brought in to do a little equine therapy with the addicts talks about seeing something in a horse’s face that should resemble a feeling we already know. After several wrong answers, he finally tells everyone that what they should be seeing in those huge brown watery eyes is devotion and nurturing. All the addicts are like, “Do whaaa?” and then there’s a commercial.

But in those two television BREAKTHROUGH MOMENTS OMG I realized that no, I don’t think I’m beautiful. I try not to think about my size and physical appearance until it relates to my health. (Which is also why I don’t go to doctors, incidentally.) I try to be conscious of negative self-talk, which I learned in therapy is so very hateful to do to yourself. So I don’t talk shit to me, but I think shit about me. And also, no one – I mean NO ONE – tells me I’m beautiful. Not beautiful inside or outside or upsidedown or backwards. I don’t want to hear if it isn’t true, but if there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I might have something – albeit small and remote – beautiful about me, I wish I had the courage to ask them to share that with me. When I think of my soul, and whether or not it’s beautiful, I qualify that thought with “…yeah, that part would be okay until you remember this OTHER part, which is really bad.”

__________________________________________________________________________

How much of this shapes who we are now? I don’t mean like, okay, Susie is shy because people called her fat, I mean like HEY. DO YOU GAIN WEIGHT BECAUSE THEY TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULDN’T? Or something equally horrible?

Are you beautiful because you think so, or because you’ve been told you are, or because it actually is the truth that you wish you’d hear from someone else other than yourself?

I love myself, I really do. But I don’t think I’m beautiful, and I’m damn sure no one else thinks I am, either.  Finally, I do not know what devotion and nurturing look like, but if I had that or practiced that or whatever, would I know if it knocked on my door?

So I’m sitting up in bed, roughly around midnight, typing on this lovely but God-forsaken netbook I’m using these days. I’ve been stricken with a summer cold, for lack of a better term, and it’s KICKING MY ASS. I had this whole 5 day holiday thing worked out, including pool time, beach time, movie time, eat something not on Weight Watchers time and BAM! This cold has made me its bitch.

I have a lot of half-posts I’ve written lately. I was going to do all these fun, intelligent things about design and how our minds see images without predisposed opinions. (On second thought, that doesn’t make sense.) Then I was going to write a list about what the Internet and Its People have taught me over the last couple of months. (Surprisingly, quite a bit.) And then I have this really cool post coming about a memory I have of being 8 or 9 in July. Because, you know, it’s July.

But instead of topping off those half-done projects, I’m going to start another one. Warning up front: Brian doesn’t know I’m about to talk about these things. Like every other plan we’ve ever had, this one will sink like a cinder block. TRUST ME. It’s still fun to talk about, though.

Have you ever thought about picking your shit up and just moving away? I don’t mean the next water district over, or into that 10,000 square foot foreclosure by the country club. I mean AWAY. Away, away, away. Like, House Hunters International Checks out Amsterdam! away. Actually, my first preference would be the Loire Valley of France, or perhaps Brittany, right on the English Channel, but my adventure partner, who doesn’t yet know about his adventure, wouldn’t be up for it.

Instead, I have decided that this is the very last summer I can put up with this heat without doing something about it. We – both of us – are FUCKING MISERABLE. Granted, I don’t live in Texas or the Death Valley or whatever, so yes, some of you are hotter. But I can’t take the two seasons per year thing. We have scorching brutally humid hot, and sometimes okay, rainy, coolish cold. That’s it. We can’t enjoy outside stuff in the summer because of mosquitoes and the drought (and it’s too hot) and we don’t live close enough to either the beach or the mountains to take advantage of other weathery thingies.

So yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and look for jobs for one or the both of us. I’m going to look at houses up in the mountains of (some) state. I want a screen porch that allows me to enjoy myself without needing a baby pool to catch my sweat. I want to plant some plants that won’t automatically die once they’ve figured out where they are. I want to see the seasons change. You know, like CHANGE. I don’t want to have to keep my flip flops and cropped pants out just in case this Thanksgiving is like all the other ones before it. I’d like to wear a pretty sweater more than once during the winter.

Again, I haven’t officially brought this up with Brian. What’s the point right now? It’s a pipe dream.

A cool, rainy, screen porch, Wellies, good grocery stores and schools, fun cultural activity kind of dream.