"Honey...why are your clothes so dirty?"

I read with Logan the 4th grader today.  It's becoming a weekly highlight for me.  Today, he was all worked up (quite a feat for him) because rumor had it that the other class in his "team" got in trouble for talking and not making a straight line during class change.  The punishment, he informed me solemnly, would come at recess and would be punishment indeed.

The entire class, he reported with raised eyebrows, would be forced to spend their entire recess time...WALKING.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have identified the crux of the childhood obesity crisis.

When walking is seen by children as punishment, it would only stand to reason that the converse...SITTING...would be seen as a reward.  Sitting.

I tried to express this to Logan in simple terms.  "Walking?!?!," I questioned/shouted.  "How is that any sort of punishment.  Shouldn't kids be encouraged to move and be active during recess?"

He shrugged.

"That seems crazy to me," I ranted.

He shrugged.  I told you he was really worked up.

I sighed and he pulled a book called "Learning Martial Arts" from his reading folder.  We delved into the mysterious world of Ninja (did you know that "ninja" is the plural of "ninja"?  I did not.), karate, judo, and such.  We learned about itching powder, blowguns, and various darts.  And then something really captured my attention.  The book explained how judo students often spend hours learning how to fall properly.  They fall to each side and to the back.  They learn how to roll out of falls, how to properly break their falls, how to fall strategically, etc.

"Logan!," I gasped.  "That's it!  This is the solution to recess punishment!"

"Huh?"

"Instead of being forced to walk during recess, kids who misbehave should be forced to fall repeatedly at recess!  It's perfect."

Logan smiled.  He actually SMILED!

"Think about it," I continued.  "Kids don't want to get their clothes dirty?  Don't misbehave.  You think falling repeatedly on purpose hurts?  Don't misbehave.  You'd rather be sitting?  Too bad.  You have to fall instead.  Repeatedly.  On purpose."

"I'll have to talk to the principal about that one," he cautioned, sensing that I was getting carried away.  "She's the one who came up with the walking rule."

On second thought, Logan, maybe keep that idea to yourself.  I always found it was best to fly under the principal's radar.

I said I'm just THINKING about it

The kids in my youth group at church have expressed a surprising level of interest in participating in the 30-hour Famine, which is a fundraiser used to fight the world hunger epidemic.  You may have heard of it before, or even participated in such an event yourself.  The gist of it is that the group raises funds, and then everyone goes for 30 hours without eating in order to get a small taste of what it's like to be hungry (get it...a small taste...).

Most of the 30-hours of fasting are spent at the church, where the group participates in all sorts of hunger-related educational experiences as well as community service projects.  Oh, and also everyone gets really hungry and grumpy and at about hour 15 they all beg for permission to quit.  But I'm just guessing on those last few points - such information is not divulged in the printed materials.

Every group sets their own fundraising goal, obviously depending on the number of people participating and how much everyone's grandparents love them.  The dates of our 30-hour Famine are April 26-27, so there's still a lot of time for us to think about how much money we'd like to raise.

But I have an idea.

I'm just CONSIDERING this idea, and I haven't shared my considering with anyone.  Yet.  Until now.

I'm considering telling my youth group that, if they raise $5,000 to fight world hunger, I will, in turn...

No, I would not also make this face all the time.

...go pink.

First, I don't think there's ANY WAY they will raise $5,000.  Second, if they DID, by some unbelievable stretch, actually raise $5,000, I think I'd be so thrilled and proud that I'd be more than happy to dye my hair (temporarily...as in not permanently) pink.

So I think about how thrilling it might be for them, and what a kick they might get out of it...but then I think about how I'm not always with those people, so most of my time would be spent encountering strange looks from strange people, and fielding "compliments" like "hey, nice hair."  But then I could just reply "I lost a bet." and that would allow me to finally seem mysterious and spontaneous - two words that most certainly have never described me.

And then I think, hey, it's just hair.  So what if you have pink hair for two weeks or something?  It would be  a great story to tell?  But then I imagine myself pushing a cart through the produce section of the grocery store or in line at the dry cleaners, and I lose my nerve.

So, what think ye?  Should I be daring for the sake of helping starving folks?  Or do I just keep my mouth shut and pretend I never thought of it?

I'm gonna go ahead and reevaluate this

I've been trying a new strategy when it comes to doing laundry.  Instead of washing, then drying, then folding, then putting the clothes away, basket by basket, I've been dividing the process into three stages:

Stage one includes sorting, washing, and drying all the clothes.

Stage two involves dumping all the clothes on the guest room bed as soon as they come out of the dryer.  This is my favorite stage.  Today, I'm about 1/2 way through the laundry and the pile looks something like this:

Stage three is the folding/hanging/putting away of the clothes.  This is my least favorite stage.  It happens to be Jeremy's least favorite stage, too.  This is one of the things I wish we didn't have in common.  

Today, however, I discovered a major flaw in my new strategy.  You see, I enjoy napping in the guest room on weekends (or weekdays, too - let's be honest).  

But it's a little tough, I realized this afternoon around 2pm, to nap on top of Mt. Laundry.  

Major.  Flaw.  

Maybe we can teach Elise the Dog to take over Stage 3 for us?  She more than anyone appreciates a good nap.  

Don't judge me for the dog hair on the coffee table.  Judge ye-who-sheds-a-lot.

Mixed messages

As I've documented here before, I read with a 4th grader once a week for 30 minutes.  I really get a kick out of the whole thing, and I like to think my victim student does, too.  The jury's still out on that one, though.

This week, I was asked to sub for a mentor who was out of town, so I arrived 30 minutes earlier than normal to read with a sweet and charming 3rd grade girl.  I retrieved her from her classroom and we walked together to the library.  Each student has a reading folder that contains a reading log, a spiral bound notebook, and some colored pencils.  As we "unpacked" her folder to begin reading a riveting book entitled "Happy Birthday, Martin Luther King!", she presented me with a card.

"I made this for you in art today," she explained.

I was totally flattered.  What a nice, welcoming gesture from this tiny ambassador.  Here is the front of the card.  Precious, right?

And then, things took a strange turn.  Check out the mixed messages contained within:

You're reading that correctly.  The card reads "Eat your own bran" (brain).  And yes, we talked about the correct spelling of brain.  Also featured are the sentiments, "I love you" and "Get out".

I'm so excited.  I'm so scared.  I'm so confused.

We had a long conversation about what we thought brains would taste like, then she drew a picture of someone eating their own brain.  Delightful, no?

Then we read about why we celebrate MLK, Jr.'s birthday and I sent her on her merry way.  I went back to my office and studied the card some more.

I'm just really not sure what to make of it.

Bugged

Well, the 2013 ski trip is in the books.  It's quite a marvelous feeling to be only 23 days into a new year and to have already overcome such a hurdle.  No, seriously.  Marvelous.

This year's trip featured an argument or two about Taco Bell (namely, I got ganged up on by a bunch of teenage boys about having dinner at Taco Bell.  Guess what.  We didn't have dinner at Taco Bell.), a 10:30pm phone call to my cell phone that went something like this: "Elizabeth?  Can you come to my room?  I think I broke my wrist.", and zero speeding tickets - a vast improvement over last year's tally (2).  

Of all the highlights, this year will go down in my own memory as the year of the mysterious window screen.  Upon responding to the aforementioned "can you come to my room, I think I broke my wrist" phone call, I assessed the situation (it was clearly broken) and turned to leave the room in search of ice and ibuprofen.  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a window screen leaning against the wall.  I paused, processing this detail in my mind.  4 teenage boys.  Room on the first floor.  Window screen removed.  Hum.    I turned to face the suspects.  One inspected his wrist.  The other three were engrossed in their cell phones.  

"Why is there a window screen leaning against the wall?"

"Uhhhhhhhhhhh," replied a chorus of mid-puberty voices.  

"Seriously.  Why is there a window screen.  Leaning.  Against the wall?"  

"Uhhhhhhhhhh."  Clearly an articulate bunch.  "We didn't leave.  We promise."

Then one bright light bulb offered an excuse.  "We took it off to let the air in faster so the room would cool down quicker."  

I was stunned, caught processing such a lame excuse.  "Really?  To let the air in more quickly.  Shall I introduce you to the purpose of a screen?  It's a genius design, really, made for the specific purpose of LETTING AIR IN A ROOM QUICKLY.  Also, do those sorts of excuses work on your parents?  If so, I need to have a chat with them, because seriously?  That's lame."

I left the room, giving them instructions that the screen was to be replaced by the time I returned.  It was.  

I only mentioned the incident one other time, to assure the suspects that they would never again stay in a first floor room on a church youth trip.  "Fourth floor or higher for you twits.  That way," I explained, "if you try to sneak out the window again, you will fall during your attempt and break something.  That will provide me with all the indisputable evidence I need."  

Between you and me, I would kill to know what they did.  Did they go to Taco Bell?  Did they go buy junk food at the gas station next to our hotel?  Did they hitch hike to the nearest nursing home to spend time with the residents?  Was the screen's removal really innocent in nature?  

We may never know.  

And that really bugs me.  

West Virginia, mountain mama, TAKE ME HOME.

I'm leaving tomorrow morning with a group of teenagers to go to West Virginia.  On purpose.  It's time for the annual ski trip, and all I can think about is how I didn't go to the grocery store to stock up on snacks for myself.  Such a rookie mistake.

If you're a robber, don't bother stopping by my house.  Even though I'll be gone, my husband and his dog will be home, so any attempts to rob the place will result in you getting barked at and slobbered on.  It will be even worse if the dog is awake.

This will mark the fourth time I've gone on a youth group ski trip as an adult, and the thing I'm most looking forward to about this year is that our hotel is within walking distance to a Cracker Barrel.  I mean, is that a stroke of good fortune or what?  I hope to achieve higher than ig-no-ra-mous status on the golf tee game at long last.  A girl can dream.

I don't plan to ski this year due in large part because I've come to realize that I really don't like skiing.  Once I finally admitted that to myself, I felt strangely liberated.  Like I had been living with some deep, dark secret whose unveiling would permanently relegate me to the kids' table at family gatherings.  Hello, my name is Elizabeth, and I don't like to snow ski.  (Audible gasps from my snow ski loving family.)

I think my main aversion to the sport (besides HELLO it's literally freezing) is all the stress that comes from trying to execute a proper and successful dismount from the ski lift.  Despite years of attempts, I've never quite mastered the art and on more than one occasion I've been the reason that the lift stops seemingly inexplicably.  The explanation being, of course, that I face planted again during the dismount process and I need a few extra moments to gather my skis, ski poles, and pride before I crawl on all fours to the nearest embankment to weep silently into the snow.  Then the tears freeze and that's just uncomfortable.  I guess the bright side being that I'm afforded a virtually impenetrable disguise while falling all over myself and those around me - terrible hat, tinted goggles, bulky neck wrap.  Pretty much the get-up of a robber, but the only thing that's getting stolen is my positive self image.

So no skiing for me.  Instead, I'll be the bench warmer, literally.  I'll scope out a table or two in the lodge (the tables closest to the gift shop enjoy the strongest wireless internets signal) and I'll sit there, saving space in anticipation of the return of my frozen friends who seek me out for a respite from the elements.  That, and cheeseburgers.

When they ask me accusingly "Why aren't you skiing?!?" as if I'm the lamest person, like, ever, I'll direct them to this post and after reading it their suspicions of my lameness will be confirmed.

Try, try again

Recently, I tried to implement a new strategy for dealing with annoying, maddening, or otherwise aggravating circumstances.  I somehow came across the following picture on the internets awhile back and it made me giggle:

From my extensive research (meaning that I googled the image for about .7 seconds and this is the first story that came up, so it must be true), this is a Canadian participating in a protest of some sort.  Imagine it, won't you?  It is apparently freezing outside, and something has ticked you off to the point that you even bother getting out of bed.  You stumble around your cold apartment, gathering supplies to create your picket sign.  Next, still infuriated, you get seriously bundled up, commute to the picket line, and presumably spend hours braving the elements to let your voice be heard.  And that voice says, plain as day, "I am a little upset."

I'll tell you right now: if I ever got fired up enough about something to picket against or for it, you better believe my sign would be made using an 8-foot tall piece day-glo florescent poster board, glitter, firecrackers, and a snappy soundtrack.  I might even paint my face in a war-paint motif.  You know...something subtle.  I would yell until I was hoarse, pace around until my feet ached, and try my hardest to get in front of any television camera within a 2-mile radius.

And you know what?  My approach would get less attention than this gentle soul.  My picture would likely not even get taken, much less circulated around the internets.  But she's getting her point across, isn't she?  There's no doubt where she stands on the issue.

After my fascination with this image subsided a bit and I managed to study it without giggling, I decided to try her approach to indignation.  Instead of getting all enraged, annoyed, and flustered at the next sign of adversity, I promised myself to try this calmer strategy.

Of course, I failed miserably.  I found myself with raised blood pressure, staccato-like utterances escaping my mouth, flying in the general direction of my computer screen.  Frustration oozed from my pores.  I was the opposite of serene and centered.  My anger was unproductive and venomous.  It was also short lived and once I'd recovered my mental faculties, I felt sort of silly.

I bet this woman did not feel silly after the protest was over.  I bet she felt accomplished and composed.

I'd like to be more like that.  

(almost) Completely Thrilling

What follows is the sworn testimony of my jury duty experience, retold to the best of my recollection, the truth the whole truth with some of my own opinion thrown in, so help me God and Wendy's french fries.

Did somebody say french fries?

I reported this morning at 9:50am for jury duty.  I wasn't due until 10:00am.  I was trying to appear prepared but not overly earnest.  I think it worked. 

The surly security officer told me to place my bag on a table and then instructed me to proceed through a metal detector.  The detector did not beep, nor did anyone ever look inside my purse?  So what in the world was the point of that?  Maybe all courtroom terrorists swear to keep their gun, bomb, or bazooka on their person at all times, so no need to do an inspection of purses?  

I was granted admittance to the courtroom, and by that I mean the surly guard grunted once and pointed to a door that was labeled "courtroom."  It looked just like a real, live, TV courtroom.  All Judge Judy and stuff.  I took a seat in the last row (the better to people watch from) and settled in for the wait.  

There were 21 other potential jurors there (I counted.  Twice.).  One guy was snoozing against the wall like it was his job.  He snored loudly twice and once choked on his own spit, causing a violent fit of coughing.  That was about it for entertainment.  

One woman did make a fabulous fashion choice.  For her day as a juror, she chose a bright green sweatshirt which featured black fingerprints all over it.  Like, she totally looked like a crime scene.  If I had been wearing a hat, I would've tipped it to her.  Well played, lady.  Well played.  

Then, suddenly and with a flair of drama, a door near the front opened, a man said "All rise!" (yes!  Really!) and a real, live judge appeared.  She whispered a little to the court clerk (probably taking about the fingerprint sweatshirt) before asking two specific parties to "approach the bench."  Yes, she really said it like that.  And they did approach and she did swear them in and she did ask them to step to the side.  Then she did ask all potential jurors to stand.  We did.  Then she did explain that we were there for a civil matter between party Goodman and party Arrowood, and it turns out that the two parties settled their civil matter in a way that was lasting and binding.  She did thank us for our willingness to serve and then she did DISMISS US.  She did tell us to have a nice day and some potential juror lady (maybe the fingerprint wearer?) yelled "Happy New Year!"  

And just like that, it was over.  Dismissed before I even got to show my potential to be the shrewd, impartial, fair-but-stern juror I know I would be.  

Dismissed.  More like dissed.  

I halfway expected Doug Louellen from the People's Court to be conducting interviews as we left the courtroom.

But alas, not so much.

Still, the whole experience was almost amazing, almost inspiring, almost life-changing.  To sum it up in one word, my experience was "almost."    

Would Your Honor like a snack?

I love to people watch.  It's one of the reasons I love the airport.  I've never begrudged a long lay over...it's just more time to watch as masses of oddly dressed humanity wander past.  And they serve snacks there, too!  Grab an ice cream and watch the show, kids!    

My love of people watching is the catalyst behind my long-standing desire to receive a summons for jury duty.  I've always considered jury duty to be the pinnacle of people watching, assuming it's anything like the movies and TV.  Because things are ALWAYS as they are depicted on the TV, right?

Well, after 14 years of registered voting, I've gotten my wish.  That's right, folks.  

I've been summoned.

Monday is the big day.  I'm to call on Friday evening to see if I'm needed* (clearly, they need me) and if so, game on.  I'm juror 52.  I hope to be sequestered, though my Debbie Downer co-workers tell me they don't sequester for magistrate court.  Maybe if I object strenuously enough, the judge will reconsider?  

I'm going to prepare for Monday by watching "Legally Blonde" repeatedly this weekend.  The fact that Elle Woods was a law student, not a juror, is a minor technicality in my book.  I'm also considering dressing the part.  Minus the dog, obviously. 

I might even fill out any required paperwork in bright pink ink.  

Also, does anyone know if they serve snacks at jury duty?  Am I allowed to bring food and/or beverage into the courtroom?  I promise to choose food that doesn't crunch loudly so as not to interrupt the proceedings.  I mean, a girl's gotta snack.    

*If I call on Friday evening and learn that I'm not needed, I will seriously pout.  Like, seriously.  Pout.  

Going for the record

I decided today.  It's been decided.  My goal for 2013 is to post more blog posts than ever before.

I can hear you groaning and gagging.  Stop that.

My all-time high for posts in a year happened in 2010, with 129 nuggets of nonsense.  Last year was my worst showing with only 48 posts.  How ever did you people survive?!?!

The drought is over, though.  I will endeavor to blog 2.5 times per week this year, for a total of 130 posts.  You'll be able to recognize the 1/2 posts because those will be missing something important, like vowels or punctuation.  Or a coherent thought.

t wld b rlly hrd t wrt wtht vwls.  (Get it?)

So, consider this your warning.  Or your reason for living in 2013.

Because nice is...well...nice

Today, I:

- forgot to bring most of my make-up to the gym for my post-workout beauty routine.
- have a messy, messy office.  My desk features a roll of toilet paper and it looks like a Christmas pageant exploded on my couch.  Because it did.
- have to fit an entire work week into one day.
- am not in love with my outfit.
- "accidentally" ate a Snickers for breakfast.  After spending an hour at the gym.
- have a Color Me Badd song stuck in my head.  (All For Love, anyone?  Anyone?)

But despite all those things, I've made a decision.  Just for today, I'm going to be nice to myself.  I'm not going to get frustrated, or belittle, or be critical, or compare myself to others, or wish I had done (fill in the blank) two weeks ago when it first appeared on my to-do list.

I'm just going to be nice to myself.  I'm going to forgive myself.  And cut myself some slack. And do my best, and then congratulate myself for all that best-doing.  Just for today.

And maybe I'll try the same thing tomorrow, too.

Join me, won't you.  You deserve it.