intimate friends

In New Orleans, I once duct-taped my breasts together.

Rather, a very close girlfriend did the taping. I merely stood there with my arms up. And duct tape can do anything, right?

This has nothing to do with the coincidence that I happened to live in N'awlins at the time of this formal military dinner dance I was attending. It had everything to do with the fact that, in the spaghetti-strapped sparkly gray dress I had donned for the evening, I wanted to have cleavage. Or something that could possibly resemble more endowment than that I had been naturally or genetically given.

I have had two children and, both times had close friends in attendance. Girl friends. The kind who you can trust at the time you are in the most pain your have ever experienced in your life and denying yourself pain medication to give you all the support that only a Community of Women can provide its members. The ones who can see you naked and giving birth and be a part of and appreciate that miracle. But that is different.

Yesterday my new piko ring arrived...finally. It had been over two months since getting my piko pierced, something I find incredibly sexy, and I ordered myself something very nice and classy. After all, if I have a hole through my abdomen, I want something nice going through it.

Getting it in, however, was no small task. She-ra, in compliance of her position as Enabler Extraordinnaire, not only stood with me as I got the nail pushed through my belly button in April, she was here in the morning to await the arrival of The Piko Ring.

With her camera.

As it is a top-down design, I was hoping to thread it through by attaching the piercing to the top of the bar with which I was initially pierced. That did not work. She-ra then suggested following the tecnique demonstrated during the piercing, when my skin was pinched tight so that there would be lesser distance for the piercing to travel to get through the other side. So here is She-ra, trying to pinch-grasp my belly skin and hold the ring steady so I could try to connect the new one to the old one and "pull" it through the track.

Yeah. Great theory, did not work.

So, with She-ra watching I somehow just took a deep breath and pushed the silver bar out with my new golden diamonds. She-ra stood facing me and exclaimed, "I see it!" as the gold pushed through to the other side.

My hands were shaking so hard that I could hardly get the ball screwed on the bottom, but I did and my new piko ring is now in place!



Sure could have used a shot of something after that.

Meanwhile, She-ra has now been elevated in stature as One with Intimate Knowledge of My Body. No, true, she did not duct-tape any of my body parts together. But she not only was my accomplice in getting the nail through my gut, she was my cheerleader in the daunting task of changing the piercing for the first time.

No more piercings for me. Ears thrice, piko. That's it. I think I'm getting too old for this.

(shudder)

Tequila, anyone?

a tough call

In starting my own business I never dreamed of facing this situation.

It might seem like a no-brainer to anyone else, but as I have no paycheck coming in the summertime due to vacation and book-writing, course-planning investment time, a little tutoring here and there for summer school students helps out quite a bit, especially at $50/hour.

*-----*

Permit me to digress for contextuality's sake:

My decisions for leaving the Uni teaching staff were varied.

-I was unable to commit to a full-time position toward which faculty was pushing me due to the young ages of my children. In fact, I had to take a term off when The Young Prince was born.

-With childcare considerations, I could only teach evening courses, which usually had me returning home anywhere, depending on the hours of the courses I taught. Sometimes I taught the 5-8 block, others the 7-10 block. This, while having to arrive early to fulfill my required office hour presence--during which I, of course, ended up helping everyone else's students whose profs did not show for their posted office hours. Lovely.

-It was believed that natives, no matter how badly they teach, still teach better than non-native speakers and thus certain classes were withheld from non-native speaker reach. That was just discriminatory.

-I was wanted in a full-time position as I was known for creativity and hard work. I am good at test-writing and I would fulfill a complementary position, making the Department look good by offering conferences and workshops. But I was one of very few--and all of us non-natives, surprisingly--who actually did work to complete what our contracts required of us. So much time at home in front of the computer test-writing and planning and printing, since we were not permitted to make photocopies of anything other than exams due to budget cuts, took very valuable time away from my children. They couldn't comprehend that I was doing this for work, because they couldn't see what "work" was for me.

-I was feeling burned out due to all the effort and little professional gratification, although I loved the majority of the students I taught, and I really enjoyed the traditional/non-traditional student mix that the evening courses brought me.

-I was being threatened by a student that last term. I had been threatened before by a guy in summer school who never showed up for class and, when his final grade was a D, he sent me "or else..." emails that I just sent right up my chain of command and never had to deal with him. But this was a young lady who had transferred into this Uni from out-of-state, was on some sort of medication (I'm not sure what but at one point she referred to her psychiatrist and her medications in a conversation with me). It started with emails intended to intimidate, but "anonymously" sent (obviously not too saavy as very little is truly anonymous on email) so I had my techie-dude friends at the Department help me out a bit and track the IP of the system from which the emails were sent. They were astounded at the language used--although not profane, it was extremely intimidating. I'll refrain from going into all details but, after the same student I strongly suspected of threats insinuated that I was a b*tch in class one night, there wasn't much more I could do but report her behavior and communications to her dean, who then asked me if I was getting police escorts back to my car at night after teaching.

*-----*

When doing my normal insomniac middle-of-the-night email check last night, I about fell out of bed when I found an email from that same student in my junk folder. She needs a Spanish tutor for the summer, from after July 4 through the beginning of August. Granted, there will be one weekend in there that will be impossible for me as I will be out of town. I know she is not going to get a grade from me so that gives her no reason to be threatening toward me--but what if she does not put forth the effort on her own to achieve the grade she wants? A tutor can only do so much. I know she is contacting me because I was the best Spanish teacher she had at that Uni and I left--because I was one of the best there, even in my worst semester while dealing with her.

What frightens me is knowing what she has done, without her knowing I know, and my worries that, if things don't go her way she will know where I live. True, I could be creating a mountain out of a mere molehill but, then again she might be a crazy case.

I could opt to meet her at a coffee shop and tutor there. Disadvantages are that I would need to arrange childcare and the concentration levels would be difficult to achieve; I have my own little classroom in my home, whiteboard and comfy chairs and all, and there is a lot to say for ambiance.

So there we are. I think I already know what my decision is on whether to take her or not--any other opinions out there?

piropos from the optometrist

A couple of months ago my pair of "attitude glasses" died.

My prescription-filled sunglasses also are feeling a bit wobbly in the joints. 'Wobbly' meaning, of course, beyond repair.

I am down to my last pair of glasses, rimless, so I decided last week to bite the proverbial bullet and make an optometrist appointment. It has, after all, been three years since my last prescription.

Knowing I am not there to discover that I need glasses but to instead order new corrective lenses, and in my extreme-time-management mode, I took advantage of the looooong wait to try on various frames and write down what "finalists" made the cut. As soon as I had finished surveying my ocular appearance from behind fashion frames, Young Dr. Hottie-Pants called my name...actually pronouncing my name correctly!...and ushered me back onto the Throne.

We chatted a bit, I had attended undergrad at a school rather well-known for its graduate program in optometry and thus had served as "guinea pig" throughout my four years for my oppy boyfriend and his buddies. We whipped through my exam, very little change in my correction needed, and then he launched into a little statement about how, once we start moving toward 40, we notice the differences in how we read, but how my eyes, as I am ever-so-slightly near-sighted, will perhaps stave the process off a few more years than average. That was sweet music to my ears, although Kat Wilder's post from yesterday on signs--or not--that we are aging flashed through my mind as I said, "Yes, and once we hit that downhill slope, we really do start sliding!"

To which Young Mr. Dr Hottie Pants replied, "Not to say that you look at all like you are sliding."

I smiled. Was that a piropo?

(piropo: a flattering compliment or what could even be construed as a pick-up line)

Whether or not it was meant as such, I accepted, we ended our appointment and I went and spent (gasp) $873.75 on new glasses for what will hopefully be the next three years.

Walking home (yes, of course I walked!) I noticed five different trucks drive by, and each of them turned their heads to look at me as I walked up the street. One even turned a second time as he rounded the corner. Wow! There was a time that I resented the attention, be it in the form of a look or a whistle, or a "tsss tsss". It was later eloquently explained to me that, culturally, latino men are not meaning to degrade the female but rather to express deep appreciation for the beauty they behold.

Ah. Got it.

Just nice to know that I still haven't lost it!

stormy surrealism

A thunderstorm rolled over me at 2:30 in the morning.

True, it rolled over the entire area, but I am usually the only one I know who is awakened by the thunder, the flashes, the energy, the rain, the gloriously wet smell that fills and freshens the air.

I find thunderstorms, especially those that surprise me in the middle of the night, to be extremely exciting and invigorating. The energy is undeniable; I feel connected to so much around me with senses heightened during such storms.

Last night I allowed myself to remain in a semi-dream state during the storm. I felt a deep longing pulling at my soul, an almost primal need for connection that has not been fulfilled in so long. I have never made love during any storm, which surprises me because, although I feel so alive I never could awaken my partner or the opportunity was simply unavailable to me for whatever reason. My passionate soul has found great disappointment, sadness and loneliness in a marriage lacking in desire to share any form of spontaneous, stormy pleasure; indeed, "give-give-give" does breed resentment among the giver when there is no reciprocity involved nor any desire demonstrated in learning how to reciprocate.

As my muscles reacted in the anticipation of each thunder clap that would follow each brilliant flash I tried to remain floating above the pleasant sensations, the draw back to Earth attempting to awaken me further but I resisted the gravitational seduction...

...and then came the rain.

In squalls, the sky would open for about thirty seconds, then cease suddenly to a trickle with a very zen-esque quality to the drip-drops from the leaves of the dogwood outside my bedroom window to the wet mulch below. This cycle repeated about three times until the rain continued steady, lulling me back into my dreams. I could taste the water in the air, I could smell the delicious humidity and, in closing my eyes, I could sense the water bringing calm to all fires caused by the lightning.

Is this my oft-joked druid side? Or is this me being Woman?

Gravity then won its seduction when the pitter-patter of almost-four year-old feet came from his room into mine, and a little cuddle ball climbed up to put his cold feet against his mother's warm thighs.

Back to my sweet reality.

saving the world, one baby birdie at a time

Today I gave Mother Nature a little hand.

As it is late Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, there are many baby birds hatching from their nests in the various trees, filling the air with the joyful and sometimes frantic chirping of newly hatched chicks and first-time parents. New birds are learning to spread their wings and fly from their comfortable nests. However, this first flight can actually end up being much more of a stumble into a situation out of which Baby Birdie cannot quite find a way!

I heard a very insistent chirping coming from the garage early this afternoon, so I sent the little monkeys to investigate. The chirping ceased and no bird flew out of the garage, so I decided to take a look around. I could see nothing and, as there was no more chirping had no sound assistance to go on. Coming out of the garage, I noticed gray fuzz in my big rosemary bush, behind my lavender and oregano in my herb garden. It was a baby mockingbird! Still with some newborn down on its head and little feet that are way too big for its body, but just looking at me and staying calm in the rosemary. I called the children over and we all quietly admired this being that had no choice but to be our captive entertainment.

I thought that I was perhaps mistaken, that Rosemary Birdie was the one that I had heard and that it had gotten lost from its Mama Birdie. But then the panicked chirping ensued. We returned to the garage but found nothing. La Princesita's ride then arrived to wisk her off to play for the afternoon, so the Young Prince and Mama Llama were left alone to solve this mystery.

The chirping began again. Silently I entered the garage, deducing from the sound that it was on the right-hand side. Following the chirps, I found Baby Birdie #2 on top of one of the front wheels of the lawn mower! Remembering that baby bunnies, if carrying the scent of humans on their fur when newborn are eaten by their families, I quickly found a sweatshirt and inserted my arms and hands into the arms of the pullover so that I could catch the bird without tarnishing it in any way with my scent. I had to "calmly chase" the creature around a bit but, after a bit of coaxing was able to gently grab Baby Birdie #2 and ever so lightly carry it out to be with its sibling out on the rosemary.

There they sat for a good while, siblings, the one from the garage squawking quite a bit in protest of their mother having pushed them out the nest. "How dare you! You see what happened? We weren't ready and had to deal with those HUMANS you warned us about! And you pushed us into their world!" The eternal child-to-parent guilt trip--I could hear it in the chirp.

Later this afternoon, upon The Young Prince and my return, we noticed that one of the babies was gone. Still remaining was the vociferous one, but even it had gone from the rosemary to the stones just below the lavender. I mentioned to my son that it might be a good idea to watch from the large window overlooking our driveway and see what happens.

Sure enough, in flies Mama (or Papa, who knows) Birdie and gives Baby Birdie something to eat. Then Mama flies to the fence, looking back as if trying to coax Baby to follow. Baby stands its ground.

Later, I see Mama making another approach, hopping over the driveway and back to the fence. I never did see Baby Birdie follow as I was also sauteeing my first garden squash of the season, but when I went out to check on Baby's progress, I was surprised to see that Baby Birdie was gone!

I doubt Baby Birdie would have found its way out of the garage, or if Mama Birdie would have gone in after it to coax it out of hiding. So I feel that my intervention was warranted and gave Mother Nature a bit of a helping hand this afternoon.

After all--we are all in this together, are we not?

postscript

However, it only works when the bike shop actually has 12" tire tubes in stock.

Every single size you can imagine BUT the 12". Can't quite believe it.

This is when I start wondering if the Forces are working against me!

swearing at bicycles and life lessons

The Young Prince has a little 12-inch bicycle awarded to us through Freecycle.org. Not mentioned in the advertisement, however, was the fact that this little bike would need new tires--meaning new tubes.

Having no experience changing tire tubes and no special tools for the job, I took to the task yesterday in my ongoing efforts to reinforce self-sufficiency in my young children's minds.

In the process, I ripped up my hands, almost stuck a screwdriver through my stomach--twice--when it slipped, and ended up punching a hole in the front tube when trying to put it into the tire but not realizing it until trying in vain to pump air into it. All that hard work for ???

My bike guru, by the way, mentioned this could all be done with my two hands. He must have very, very strong and callused hands...or I am doing something terribly wrong and can't figure it out.

Why not just take it to the bike shop? Because I don't want to spend more than the price of the bike's worth to get this fixed. And I am on a limited budget. All I want is something small for The Young Prince to be able to touch the ground while riding so as to achieve his sense of balance and learn to ride without trianing wheels. He would like to as well, to keep up with Big Sister and her newly-removed training wheels.

So I bandage my hands and head back to the bike store for another tube today, to try to get that in. I did succeed in getting the back tube in and inflated, so I know it is possible--it just took hours to complete one tire.

And I get good quality time with the children, teaching them about the different kinds of wrenches, screwdrivers, and pliers necessary out of my miniscule tool supply, and trying to show them that, yes, they can do whatever they want to do.

I will NOT raise two Earth Citizens who do not know how to do things by themselves. So this is just part of my eternal quest to teach as much self-sufficiency as possible. True, I wish I were more self-sufficient. I do as well as I can.

Maybe they can do better.