Not A Creature Was Stirring

I have insomnia.  A few of my European Facebook friends know this, as I greet them at 8:00 am often, their time.  This morning I woke up at 2:30.  I wake up completely alert, ready to go, fully able to complete any task.  I put on a cup of coffee, and begin writing.  I write some of my short stories, my book, or more often than naught, postcards for Postcrossing.

It's not like I go to bed at six or anything like that!  When I tell people I wake up at 2:30, they often ask that. Um, yeah.  I go to bed at six?!  I go to bed at 9:30, and then wake up at 2:30.  It stinks.  I know today I'll need a nap, as it's almost 4:00 am and I haven't fallen back asleep yet.  I usually get up at this time.

Sometimes I do crazy (oh yeah, MausiGal, real crazy!) things like bake.  This is one of my recent creations:

Baked French Toast, complete with praline topping.  Yum, yum, yummie!

I dated someone who also had the odd sleeping hours bug.  That was convenient.  Watching movies at 3:00 am is always fun to do, especially with someone else.

So now I'm debating, at 4:00 am, whether to write more postcards, embark on Mexican Piggy Cookies (where is that piggy cookie cutter from Williams Sonoma that I bought just for this purpose?!), or work on the novel.  Perhaps I could try going back to bed before the supermarket opens at 7am.  But alas, I have just made a cup of coffee.  What a waste that would be!

Avi Kitten is looking to be fed.  He's my morning buddy, always awake when I am.  Thank gosh for companionship, of any kind.

Game Day!

I have a son who is a jock.  Let's just get that out there.  Kidlet B loves sports.  He stays after school to play intramurals, whereas I was the kid staying after hours to work on poetry for the literary magazine.  I even tried the Math Club in middle school, but was so lame that I was designated the runner with all the completed sheets.  Go, team!

I wasn't surprised when last summer Kidlet B made the comment that he wanted to take up football.  Did it scare me?  Most definitely.  The words, "head injury" kept going through my mind.  This was the kidlet who fractured his arm - twice - in the same place in one summer.  I discussed the idea of his participation with the pediatrician.  I talked to other parents.  And I wondered where my once little six pound kidlet found the desire to go bang heads and smash other beings.

I run and work out on the treadmill.  That's the height of my athletic ability.  My family tells me I run like a duck, so that should give an indication as to how I may appear should I one day make it to the Boston Marathon.  Quack, quack, quack.  I don't have to look far to know where Kidlet B gets his inspiration.  His father and his uncle are both athletic.  His dad played multiple sports and continued to do so until a few years ago, and his uncle...well, Sprout is Mr. Baseball.  After playing on the high school's state winning team, his legacy goes on in the family as the SuperJock.  FocusMan, my other brother, and I, pale in comparison.  Kidlet B wants that experience, I can feel it.

I agreed this year to football, despite thinking of the little Rice Crispy guys and hearing, "Snap, Crackle, Pop!" on my son as he hit the field.  The sound of helmets banging makes me ill.  At the last game I shouted out, without thinking, "Don't hit my son!" as other dads were screaming, "Get him!  Kill him!"  I had better get used to this, though, because at age thirteen he is already 160 pounds and over 5'5".  He's a big kid, made for the sport.

Today is his first game for the playoffs.  I am going to wear the same outfit I wore for when they clenched the game for entry.  Faded jeans, black sweater, black clogs.  Am I being superstitious?  Anything for my son.  Kidlet A and I, along with Auntie C, will stand on the sidelines (I'm too nervous to sit) and watch.  Kidlet A will ponder, like I so often do, why people want to go and smack each other around.  It's a paradigm in which we don't belong.

Kidlet A has not yet joined the Math Club. He's not making his mother's mistakes, and is venturing out on his own, like his brother.  He wants to go to Sweden as an exchange student.  Sweden!  I can't yell from the sidelines across the ocean.  I will simply have to put on my jeans, black sweater, and clogs, smile, hug, and send him off into success, just as I am with Kidlet B.  This is their time.

Maus in the Volvo Haus

The mighty Volvo is dead.  Yes, the 2012 S60 Turbo which I adore and worship wouldn't start one day after school.  I approached the vehicle after working with eight, middle school knitters for an hour during a post-day program.  Knit purl knit purl cast on cast off, I was ready for a break.

Key in ignition, no go.

Foot on pedal to start.  No go.

I pray, yet still no miracle.  I watch the track team run buy and wonders if this is some sort of penance for me not running, or perhaps not buying a Kia, as my brother suggested.  Of course exercise and owning a car are in no way related, but at the moment MausiGal is not thinking clearly.

Damn Volvo.  This happened about a month and a half ago as well.  Two times in two months.  No go.

Re-evaluate.  I love my car.  Volvo has become so much of my identity that my screen name on various websites across the Internet involves the word Volvo.  My students at school can identify me on the street.  My dream car is a P1800 - the original Bond mobile.

I sit in the parking lot on this eighty degree autumn day and wonder if I've just become too materialistic with my obsession with the Swede mobiles.  Is it a fetish?  Can one have a Volvo fetish?  Let's face it, anyone who walks up to people with old Volvos and asks them about their mileage is obviously hooked.  No matter what the condition of the Volvo - old, new, broken, used, brand new - I am attracted.  I'm like a kid on Halloween when going up to the car dealership - no house will be left unvisited for candy, and I want to see each vehicle.  I stop at every car, browse the interior, sit inside, imagine myself driving the machine.  I am intoxicated by the feel of the steering wheel, opening the sun roof, heck, even imagining placing my venti salted caramel mocha in the cup holder.  New or used, each Volvo for me is a gem.  Am I materialistic?  I think again.  No, I reckon.  Even has their quirks, and mine just has to be with a car that's foreign.

And a car that is now dead in a middle school parking lot.

The tow truck comes and of course, once the driver sits in it, the engine turns.  Miracles never cease.  Yet still, the dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree, lights aglow with everything that could possibly be wrong with a car - CHECK ENGINE - that's a scary one - so off I drive (I know, idiotic) to the dealer for repairs.

One week later I am told the prognosis.  Ready for this?  Oh, the irony!

Mice.

Mice living under the hood ate through wires in my beloved car.  The insurance company even checked out the claim, and found it to be true.  The car is kept in a garage, fairly warm, where I have found no evidence of mice, but such is my fate.

So for the past three weeks I have been driving an XC60.

It's a cross-over between an SUV and a wagon.  Yummy.  The Volvomom/MausiGal is addicted, and wonders what it will be like when she is finally forced to give it back and return to her sporty, little S60.  Zip zip zoom.  

Yes, I am so lucky to own what I have.  I have been blessed with material things, but above all people in my life who are amazing and love me more than the material things could ever account for.  I'm one lucky MausiGal.  That's another blog post in and of itself.  

Now, if only to find that little family of mice in the garage and set them on a relocation program...

The Bloggie Is Back

The Bloggie is back, after about a month hiatus.  Whoa, what a time it's been.  I've truly missed writing, but every time I went to sit down at the beloved Chromebook Baby I was pulled away for one reason or another.  So tonight, a Friday night completely free, I am able to compose.

I miss summer.  Let me just start off with that.  I miss days in the sun at York Beach and the awesome times in Vermont, of which I'm already counting down until next year.  However, summer was kind enough to leave me with ten pounds extra from its iced mochas shared with Dads at Starbucks.  No amount of running seemed to keep the pounds at bay.  Egads.  Pass the elastic waistband, please...FAST!  I'm debating starting a secret weight loss blog, because I'm too embarrassed to post my own weight loss crapola on MausiGal.  Blah blah blah.  Been there, done that.  Who hasn't?  Why live in shame?  I'm back to working out every day on that treadmill, with the incline of ten (tell it to the mountain!) at four miles an hour.  I know I can lose it all, it's just a matter of sticking with it, and staying away from iced mochas.  And caramel macchiatos.  And scones.  And fettuccine.  Do we sense a problem?

Being alone on a Friday night has a stigma in our society, doesn't it?  I was speaking with someone recently and they were really curious as to what my weekend without kids would be like.  "So, what ARE you doing?!" was his question.  I'm vegging out.  Seriously.  With over 130 students to teach this year, I'm exhausted by the time i get home.  Combine that with two extremely active thirteen year old boys of my own, and I'm ready to throw in the towel.  My car has become the Mom Taxi, as much as I lament to say this.  I tell people I own a "sporty Volvo."  Who am I kidding?  I own a kid totting mobile!  This afternoon's kid pickup (four thirteen year old boys from the ice cream stand) held a lively conversation on the benefits of AXE deodorant.  This continued into how one may shower twice a day and still smell.  I teach middle school.  I feel their pain.  I live their pain on a daily basis!

I'm really content - honestly - to be here without an agenda - at the computer, jamming out to Tom Petty, and writing on the Chromebook.  Am I a hermit?  I don't think so.  I do like spending time with people, but I don't think I'm the type that honestly looks to go clubbing or out to bars on a Friday or Saturday night.  No, gracias.  I'm totally happy at home cooking my new specialty - clover bread!

I recently gave this to someone, and he told me how yummy it was.  He then proceeded to tell me they used it for French toast.  Um...French toast?  My awesome bread?!  Cut up and soaked in batter?  Should I be insulted or honored?  I'm a bit bewildered.  Isn't crappy bread suppose to be used for French toast?  Someone help me out here!  I've made a few loaves of this, and it's just delish.  Plus, it looks so pretty.  And who can say no to pretty? (Wasn't that the most shallow thing you've ever heard in this blog?)

So what's gone on in the past month?  I went on an IKEA binge, during which I had my left boob smashed by an IKEA worker who tried to help us load a mattress.  Ouch!  Love IKEA, hate their customer service.  I'll admit, I'm addicted.

My awesome grandmother had a stroke last Saturday, which is incredibly sad.  She's in her early nineties.  How can you express the thoughts you have when you see someone you adore go through such pain and confusion?  And then see her son, my Dads, go through such anguish over his mother?  it's awful.

I am falling asleep.  My days run from 4:00 am to 10:00 pm, so one can imagine way.  More later.  Hopefully I'll be able to pbdate before October!

Time To Start Running!

Before I married twenty years ago I ran every day after work.  I hated it.  Why?  Because I thought it would get me ultra-skinny before the wedding and allow me to continuously eat Heath Bars.  Fast forward, and I'm hoping to get ultra-skinny once again, but there's a story behind putting my feet to the pavement.

The second week of July I could hardly jog one forth of the track.  Why was I even trying?  Because of this guy:

Yes, my son completed Clemsville's Fourth of July run, turned to me, and said, "So, Mom, are you going to do it with me?"  In his hand was information about a 5K in October.  My brothers, sister-in-law, and other kidlet had run this race.  Far be it for me to say no to a kidlet's request.  The training was on.

So during the week we were in Vermont my personal trainers became my brother, Dude,  and sister-in-law, MaineGirl.  MaineGirl had found information on what was titled "Couch to 5k," which she changed to "Laptop to 5K" in my honor.  

I've known lots of runners, and I've been impressed with each of them.  I've always seen running, especially long distances, such an unachievable goal of mine.  I could hardly run down the street, for fear that my neighbors would think that I was being robbed.  No, I'm not a louse.  I power walk on the treadmill at four miles an hour at a nine incline.  But run?  Forget it.  So to hear about people running - I was in awe.  

My roommate in college, RunnerGirl, would just take off and go.  "I went for a long run!" she would come back to room and declare.  I would look up from a book and smile.  Um, yeah.  My fat arse was so envious that she could run, run, run.  At times I snuck off to the indoor track on campus and tried to run to no avail.  I hated it.  I couldn't breathe.  RunnerGirl enjoyed it!  And to this day she has Facebook posts about herself and kids enjoying the sport of running.  Yet more inspiration for me to move forward with this.

Uncle runs marathons.  He's diabetic.  He was once hit by a bus while running.  He has a toe problem (as in he can't find it).  He still runs.  Go figure.  If I had all those issues I'd be at home hiding in a closet with my cat.  His running stories crack me up.  The texts of support from him are keeping me going in this endeavor as I've encountered shin splints, weird knee problems, and the idiocy known as "Why is Kristin wearing walking shoes as she tries to run?"  My first mini-marathon truly is for him.  I'll get there.

Vermont's runs were amazing.  With vistas of the mountains (see above, which doesn't even begin to do it justice) and a country landscape, pounding the pavement in eighty-five degree heat wasn't as bad as it should be.  Dude and MaineGirl paced me at minute intervals to build up my endurance.  If Dude could do this with a pace maker, I guess I could, too.  Well, maybe...  So we ran.  Me, kidlet, MaineGirl, and Dude.  Each day.  Dude pushed me at times where I started spouting obscenities when I couldn't go on any more.  Uphill can be a killer, especially when it's nearly ninety degrees.  The former quaint scenes of wildflowers and Green Mountain farms don't look as pretty when one is breathing like Luke Skywalker's father.  

Back home I'm keeping up, running farther each day.  I've changed to my brother, Sprout's, training advice of, "Run 'til you puke."  Granted, I'm not vomiting after running, but I am running as far as I possibly can.  I'm now up to about two miles.  When I run around the track I'm amazed that I used to only be able to jog a quarter of it.  Proud?  Most definitely.  

Off I go.  Rewarding myself with a caramel macchiato more often than not when I'm done.  

Some things never change.  Yes, I do follow up with water.  I down lots of Pelligrino.  Far be it for me to drink ordinary water, right?  

What's different from twenty years ago?  I'm actually enjoying the runs this time. I plug in my music, jamming out to either Nicki Minaj or The Beatles, depending on my mood.  I compose blog posts (like this one) in my head.  I come up with new short story ideas.  I think about how cool it will be to one day get that 13.1 sticker and put it on my desk at school.  Oh yeah.  And even better?  How amazing it will be to see the look on Kidlet B's face when I finish that 5K with him.

Filter This!

As I am determined to not become the Cat Lady of Clemsville, I continue to go out on dates.  Am I happy with myself and just being alone?  Yes, that too, but I do enjoy time with someone else.  So hence, as Dads says, there's a chair with my name on it at the The Java Room.  Mr. Right is quite elusive.

I've learned to filter what I say on these excursions.  The good dates have lasted a few hours.  The bad ones?  Yikes - one lasted a painful half hour.  I haven't encountered any bad people, it's just, as we say in the dating world, "that we're not a match."  What a catch phrase!  Thank you for your application, but at this time we cannot offer you a position.  Dating is a lot like interviewing for a job.  Hence why I have to filter what I say.

I talk a lot.  Combine that with the fact that I am a bit goofy and it can be a lethal combination.  My crazy imagination comes up with all sorts of funny ideas, and on a first date zingers could fly out of my mouth that would make even the bravest guy say, "What?"

Examples of first date questions, what is said, and what actually goes on in MausiGal's head:
Mr. Date - So, you like Volvos?
MausiGal - Love them!  I'm on Volvo Number Six.  My newest is a turbo.  Great car.
MG's Head - I actually name my cars.  My last car, even though it was a wagon, had a sporty, Italian name. I think my car is sexy.  And you should, too, if you're going to date me.  Volvos rock.

Mr. Date - You're a writer?  What's your book about?
MausiGal - The main character is a teen dealing with OCD.
Mr. Date - Oh.  Interesting.  Do you have OCD?
MausiGal - (brief little chuckle) Oh no!  I've had numerous students with this disorder, and done research.
MG's Head - Why are you asking something like that on a first date?  Nosy much?  Do you have any disorders?  It's called fiction, dude, and that's why I write it.  I don't have OCD.  Now I will play with the napkin and rip it into little pieces, and arrange them in neat piles, all organized.  And make you wonder!

Mr. Date - Do you have any pets?
MausiGal - I have a funny cat named Avi.  He's so goofy.  He actually bounces off of walls!
MG's Head - STOP THERE!  Do not talk about Avi sleeping in an old box that oranges came in, or how you talk to him in the morning.  Do not talk about how you're still in mourning for LilyCat, whom you had to put to sleep less than a month ago, and referred to yourself as "Cat Killer" for days after.  Please, please do not confess that your students love the shirt you own that has cats all over it.  Men do not find future cat ladies attractive.

Mr. Date - Are you close to your family?
MausiGal - Most definitely!  I've got the greatest parents, and brothers and sisters-in law that are just the best.  My niece and nephew mean the world to me.  I see them all the time.
MG's Head - My brother insists that I once tried to kill him with a jug of clothes detergent my chasing him and whipping it at his head.  He still holds a grudge from when I flushed his toothbrush down the toilet.  My other brother?  He and I love the movie The Boondock Saints.  The scene with the cat?  I won't confess that Dads and I can never find my car in the supermarket parking lot (oh wait - I did that yesterday on a date. Oops.)

Mr. Date - What are you looking for in a guy?
MausiGal - Someone who's optimistic, fun, spontaneous, smart...
MG's Head - Didn't you read that freakin' profile I wrote?  Do I need to inflate your ego more that you may get the job?  Guess so.

I want someone who doesn't ask me the usual dumb questions.  I want someone who asks me why I loved Ecuador.  I want a guy to find out why I write postcards each morning, and love going to the post office.  Someone who would like to know why I'm on a kick of listening to 1960's music.  I know, my standards seem incredibly high.  But why shouldn't they be?

Forget the filters.  I need to be goofy me.  Let it all out.  Then I'll find that hard to get, hard to find person.  If they can handle a MausiGal's mouth, then they will be the right one.

I Get Around: Driving, Dating, and Dying Cats

Ah, summer fun!  I mentioned before that I would have quite the summer, and 2013 is no exception.  

It started off with a bang.

A car accident.  The mighty, mighty Volvo was rear-ended by a young girl texting.  Ouch!  I was in Nashua sitting in traffic when I was hit.  I was ok, the Volvo was not.  Luckily it was just bumper damage, but I was angry.  Get off your phone!  As I stepped in the ambulance to have my neck and back checked, I hoped those driving by noticed that I was wearing what my mom refers to as my "Wizard of Oz" shoes - bright red with gold heels.  

What did I learn from this?  My novel deals with a girl in a car accident, and my own memories of being hit when I was younger came back quickly.  The sound of metal.  That fear as my head went forward at the steering wheel.  The anger.  The fear that I was really hurt as my whole body ached right after the accident.  But above all, the thankfulness that I was ok.  

So life goes on... And back in the Volvo I hop!

What have I been up to?  I'm back on the dating scene.  I few years ago I read a book titled 51/50, a book in which a woman goes on fifty-one dates in fifty weeks.  I thought that would be an admirable thing when I first hit the dating scene years ago, and like the author, I could find out a lot about myself.  No thanks.  Yes, I've met some nice people (doesn't everyone say that when they're dating?).  But shall I tell you about the guy whose photo was a blond, blue-eyed dude, described as tall and who showed up?  A George Costanza look-alike.  He downed five beers in less than two hours.  Hop in the Volvo and drive!  

OK, ok.  I won't be negative about the experience after that one odd one.  I am meeting very cool people who are extremely interesting.  Like Kristen McGuiness in 51/50, am I learning more about myself?  Of course.  Don't we learn more about ourselves with each and every person we meet?  

LilyCat.  My beloved, sweet Lily.  I learned from her that you can sit on a bed all day and do nothing and still be happy.  That may sound trite, but I don't think so at all.  Lily was eleven years old, and was diagnosed with diabetes.  For a week I tried to give her insulin shots twice a day.  She had special food.  Yet still Lily was drinking so much water and ruining my house.  At the end she had a reaction to the insulin, and I made the most difficult of decisions to put her down.  I hated being an adult at that moment.  Dads went with me, and Lily went to...sleep.  I would like to think of it that way, instead of referring to myself as the "cat killer" as I did at Starbucks afterwards with Dads.  I'm trying to still justify it in so many ways - her reaction to the diabetes, how awful she looked, and her fear when I gave her the shots.  Lily began to run each time she saw me.  I will remember her purr, as she curled up with me on my bad during my saddest of moments.  Love you, LilyCat.

Three different experiences, one summer.  And it's only mid-July.  

Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress

Each summer I have a song.  This summer it's this, "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress" by the Hollies.  I remember hearing this song from when I was a kid and just thinking how it was so flipping cool.  I wanted to be the long, cool, woman in a black dress.  But instead I ended up being a short redhead.  The irony.

As I pulled out of Camp Stony on my last day of professional development on Wednesday this song came on.  I am such a believer of signs.  Things just don't happen.  It was my song!  Oh yeah!  I blazed off in the Ghetto Volvo (the new nickname since the accident). Just that morning I had finished watching Amores Perros, a Mexican film set in Mexico City that deals with a horrific car accident and dog fighting.  There's one scene in which a main character plays this Hollies' tune.  I won't give out spoilers, as you have to watch the movie.  The scene just added more coolness to me for the song.  And yes, watch the movie.  There are subtitles for those not versed in Spanish.  The film is intense.  It's not pretty.  But neither is life at times.  For that experience we become all the richer.

So what holds for me this summer?  I was talking with Dads and Kidlet B yesterday at the local coffee shop about how my life has been a whirlwind of classes for a year and a half.  I am used to getting up at 4am, pounding out homework, papers, and lessons, going to school, coming home, going to school, and doing more homework until 11pm.  I'm finding it truly weird to have...nothing...to...do.

I am editing a short story for EveryDayFiction.  They liked the first go-through, but wanted edits.  Will they publish?  I don't know.  The fun is in the writing.  A friend in college once told me, "When it's not fun anymore, don't do it!"  I keep trying to go by his advice with writing, relationships, and everything in general. Yeah, I know it sounds immature.  I was so serious as a kid.  Perhaps I'm regressing.

The summer begins. Yesterday I made a perfect loaf of bread!  Yes!  Talk about signs!  A new beginning!  And this loaf looked like it was right out of a book!  Why did it come out so good?  Because I trusted MY instincts and went with what I knew from past bread-baking experiences years ago.  The kidlets' opinion?  Perfect.

So excitied.  Vermont. Writing.  Cambridge, complete with Burdick's Chocolates.  The Swan Boats in Boston.  York Beach multiple times.  Hanging out with Drewbits and Miss Emma.  Love it!

Look for the adventures! :)

xoxo MausiGal

Gracias, Esteban...

It's not very often when I find someone else in life who is hiding two large, iced coffees in the fridge at work while they sip on one.  Yes, you are so busted, Esteban!  

Mentor, supervisor, amigo, you name it.  If we're lucky, a few times in our lives we will meet people who totally change us into something better.  Esteban was one of those people for me.

As middle school teachers we're known for being goofy.  Whatever crazy ideas I had, I could present them to Esteban and he would embrace them with open arms, or give his constructive feedback.

"I want to set up an Instagram account for the kids to follow me," was my latest idea.  Yeah, let's dive into the world of pre-teens and photos, MausiGal.

"Tell me more," was Esteban's response.  He embraces technology and anything that will hook the kids into learning.  And sure enough, my Instagram project is keeping kids interested in Spanish throughout the summer with pictures and snippets in the target language.  

"I think I'm going to end up being the Clemsville cat lady," I insisted to Esteban during one of my low mornings between eighth and sixth grade classes, complete with a "Meow!" and clawing of my hand like a cat's paw.  "I'll be conjugating present tense verbs by myself forever!"  

"Stop it!" he laughed, which always made me start my infamous snort laugh.  "You are intelligent, good-looking, the kids love you, and you have so much to offer.  Remember the wonderful you."  

This exchange was just a snippet, a few minutes stolen in his office as he rushed about with his laptop cradled in his arm (as it usually was) and I was running to make coffee (as I usually was).  But these words have stuck in my mind since, and I'm sure they will continue to do so.

Our last day of school with the kidlets was Friday.  It's a tradition at our school to wave goodbye to them as the busses depart, giving a final farewell to yet another school year.  This year was just an amazing one for me.  I was truly blessed to have such amazing kids in each and every class, and colleagues who can make me laugh like no other, and support me in all aspects of my life.

We are waving goodbye to Esteban as well.  He is leaving to go be by the sea, to head up a new charge of kidlets that will be so incredibly lucky to have him.  Who will be able to cheer me on when the days are rough, I have some crazy new idea for the classroom, or when someone once again steals my half and half and K-cups from the staff kitchen?

I'll be ok.  Professionally and personally I have grown so much from Esteban's guidance.  The end result?  I am a better teacher, mom, daughter, sister, friend because of him.  And above all, better to myself.

Gracias, Esteban, por todo.  Thank you for everything.  May every step of the way be without Dora dolls!

xoxo MausiGal

Unchained Melody

"Tenderness awakens within the security of knowing we are thoroughly and sincerely liked by someone. The mere presence of that special someone in a crowded room brings an inward sigh of relief and a strong sense of feeling safe."

Passed along to me from Sunshine Gal via the book Abba's Child

I decided to start with a quote in lieu of a photo this time. I was chatting online with Sunshine Gal, and she shared these words with me. They directly related to what I want to blog about - Mama and Dads.

Their song? Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers. I can't help but cry each time I hear it. I think about how they chose that song years ago as their own, and how they had no idea at the time what ups and downs they would go through during their lives together. Throw a crazy daughter in the mix, and their days were complete!

My parents met through letters. I firmly believe my love for the written word stems from this original relationship. My mom wrote to my dad for about two years while he was stationed in Nancy, France, with the US Army.

"He wrote the longest letters," she commented this morning during our daily morning discussion. "The other guy I wrote to was cocky." Score one for Dads!

"Perhaps you need a pen pal," was my mother's comment on my social life. Yes, possibly I do. Seeing as I love to write postcards and scribe all sorts of stories a pen pal would seem an ideal situation for me. However, it would be hard to do the things I love with someone just through letters - experience drives to nowhere, long talks in coffee shops, and sitting on a beach getting sunburned. SPF 70 need not apply. Redheads still burn...in more ways than one.

I love letters. I do get excited each day as I open up my mailbox or post office box to see what arrived for me that day. The experience is somewhat lost with email and text messaging. Two boyfriends have sent me postcards, and that endeared me to them for months. I'm a sucker for the written word. To see the handwriting is like seeing the person's soul. Have I overdone it? I don't think so. I feel like I know them better, can feel them, once I see their handwriting. Sharing words on paper has become an intimate experience in our day and age of electronic media.

But I'm still hooked on letters of any kind - email messages, Facebook exchanges, texts, you name it. Letters flying across the screen get me excited at the possibilities! I have met so many great people through Postcrossing that evolved from postcards into emails, texts, and eventually a visit. There's Sis - my forever friend in The Netherlands. I feel no one in the world may know me better than her. And then there's Baer. With him, the word raisin will never mean the same! And then there's Sakule, my new friend from Germany whom I can't wait to write to three times a week via postcards.

I know what my mother felt. She must have waited for the mailbox to be full, with letters from Dads. Each word brought forth the possibility of a future, of a connection. Who knew when she met him if he would be a total ass? Thank goodness he wasn't! History was set, and along came MausiGal, MustangBro, and Sprout.

Emails. Texts. Letters. Postcards. All the same, yet so different. Perhaps my mom and I have more in common than I thought...

Help Me Rhonda

I'm listening to "The Bold 1960's" on Pandora right now as I write this morning.  This is quite a change from my usual Nicki Minaj and Ke$ha mix.  I've been playing the oldies in the car in the afternoon with my dad as we drive around for errands in the hope that it will jog his memory.  Oh, so I hope.

I think I've come to a conclusion.  This blog isn't going to be about adventures on motorcycles, concoctions in the kitchen, or how I go psycho in my head at the supermarket deli.  I'm going to focus on my father's battle with vascular dementia for the time being.  Of course I won't be able to help but throw in the casual funny that happens here and there, or the odd thing from life in the classroom.  But my main crux in life right now, aside from the kidlets, is Dads.

The picture above with the cat and the flag is because my dad is a veteran.  Yeah, I know.  Lame attempt at including a photo with this entry.  Admit it, it breaks up the heaviness of this post!

Nearly every day I take Dads on an adventure somewhere.  Our adventures include the post office, the supermarket, and sometimes the dry cleaners.  When we have time, we go out for coffee.  I know people who know me aren't surprised, as I'll try to weasel my way in to get additional coffee any way I can.  Our coffee chat sessions will be a whole other blog post, as they include such topics as Men Who Have Treated His Daughter Badly And Are On His List, The State of the Union, Why He Likes Walmart, Your Kids Need to Cut the Lawn, and Are You Doing OK Kiddo?

We drive around Clemsville and Dads, as always, taps his knee to classics by the Beach Boys and the Beatles.  He has done this as long as I can remember.  He can recall where he was when he heard these songs fifty years ago, but has no idea where we are going.

"Are we going to the post office?"

"Yup, Dads.  And then Demoulas."

"Oh.  Do you need to go to the post office?"

I have the utmost patience with this.  Remember - I teach middle school, where kids lose pencils and cry about it.

The other day my mother sent us on a mission to the drugstore, CVS, to buy a certain type of aspirin.  Both he and I were befuddled.

"This it?  Coated?  Look at my sticky note."  I think Dads and I are the only people who refuse to call it a "post-it" and still call it a "sticky note."

"Um.  Yeah," I look at the box and nod my head in agreement.  Looks good to me.  Of course upon return back home we are both wrong.

Who has the dementia now?

Dads is with me through thick and thin.  One of my cats is sick.  She's drinking too much water, cuddling with me excessively at night, not moving much, and when you look at her you can just tell.  As I write this blog post she's sleeping in a box and I just thought she was dead.  I screamed out, "Lily!" twice and she finally put her head up.  I have been thinking about who will go with me if I do have to put her down.  It will be Dads.

Hopefully he will forget the whole moment...

Memoria

Why the Starbucks cup at the beginning of a post on memory?  You see, once a week, at least, my dad and I have been hanging out at this well-known coffee shop and sharing our thoughts on the world, the past, and the future.  But you see, my dad is losing his memory.  Dads has the beginnings of dementia.  He has suffered small strokes and his short-term memory has been the victim of this.  A few nights ago a friend asked me how he was doing, and my reply was,"I cannot talk to you about this."  It's too much for me to discuss this subject with people, but I'd like to share about it here, through my writing - the humor, the pain, and the sadness.  It affects not only my father, but my children, my siblings, and especially my mom, who deals with it on a daily basis.

Dads walks very slow.  That's the first indication that something is amiss.  Am I used to this?  I'm getting there.  For someone like me who has the East Coast stride, walking slow takes a bit of adapting.  Perhaps slowing me down a bit is a good thing, seeing as most of the time I'm at 0-60.

The first wake up call was when he and I went to get salad. His assignment was to get mushrooms.

"What are those things you put on salad?"

"Mushrooms, Dads."

"You know?  Those things!  Those little things."

"Yes, Dads.  They're called mushrooms."

"Oh yeah.  Mushrooms."

I was in a panic.  Dads had forgotten the name for a simple item.  What scared me even more was the look on his face.  It was one of sadness, and fear.

How could I bridge the abyss? I can't.  I can only be there to help him along.  Dads can remember how to get to churches in Boston which he visited in his teens, yet he cannot remember why we need to buy his niece a card for her engagement.   But he is always, and forever will be, my Dads.  Our talks over coffee still bring forth his wisdom and hope, which I so need in a world which seems to change at lightning's pace.

I take Dads out for coffee and trips to the post office nearly every day.  My mom needs a break.  I know that people on the inside of it all can become tired, trying to cope with the care of someone with dementia.

I admire how she is handling it with humor.  Could I do it?  I don't know.  We are all trying - my mom, me, my brothers, their wives.  It's definitely a family effort.  And we do it because we love Dads so much.  

So the journey continues.  Each and every day is an adventure.  All I know is I'm glad Dads is along for the ride with me.  

xoxo MausiGal

Keep An Open Mind - Ride, She Said!

I eat crow.

Yes, let's start off this post where I confess what I said a year ago to not only my kidlets but my family and friends as I began dating again.  Oh yes...

As I flipped through profiles and emails on online dating sites I dinged people who owned motorcycles and dogs.  "No way will I ever go out with a guy who has a bike or owns a dog!" I would say to my kidlets.  "No flippin' way!"  My kidlets are twelve, and they would love to antagonize me as to who Mr. Date would be.  Would he drive a sports car?  Or a beat-up minivan?  Would he be a cat person?  Or would he be one who owned snakes?  The possibilities were endless.  However, I had my standards.

No motorcycles.  No dogs.

Why?  I kept stereotyping motorcycle guys to be overly macho, and dog owners to be, well, overly attached to their pets and wimpy.  For those of you who have done the online dating scene before, you know how it can go.  There are all these profiles - just TOO many - and to differentiate between the potential date can be tough.  The whole process is awful.  I hated it, and agonized over it.  How could one possibly know someone from a blurb on the Internet and a few pictures?

So what did I do?  I went to a psychic.  Yes, no logic rules when one is in the dating scene in one's 40-something years.  However, I received the best advice in a long time from the psychic that one could ask for.

Keep an open mind.

Creepy?  She said I would meet someone in October who worked with children.  I did.  But above all, she kept telling me that hot, August night, (gosh, sounds like some sort of Harlequin novel), "Keep an open mind."  What happened?  I met someone who adored motorcycles and had a dog.  My boys rolled their eyes and said, "Nice going, mom."

Keep an open mind.

I went for my first ride on a motorcycle since college a few years ago.

It was on a 1970 Harley.  How cool is that?  Even I was impressed, the girl who had refused to consider someone because they rode a bike and owned a dog.  For about six months I had spent hours with Breadman, the person who not only had a dog but loved bikes, and off we drove for over two hours through the countryside of New Hamsphire.

Today's trip took us off to Peterborough, New Hampshire.  Our original destination on the Kawasaki Z11 (I think I got that righ!) was King Arthur Flour Cafe and Bakery in Vermont.  Upon rethinking, we decided upon Burdick's Chocolates in Walpole, New Hampshire.  However, spring in New England can be a finicky beast.  It was cold!  For the ride up I kept thinking to myself, "Your hands will hold dark hot chocolate.  Your hands will hold dark hot chocolate"  as my fingers became more and more nimble, despite the gloves protecting them.  Instead we stopped at a cute little shop, Ava Marie Chocolates, and then had diner food, in Peterborough.  Perfect!  

Wow!  I notice so much more when on a motorcycle versus in a car.  Granted, while on a motorcycle I am a passenger, and have the opportunity to observe.  When I'm a passenger in a car I usually sleep, I result of being carsick so much when I was younger.  Today I saw so much that I wanted to whip out my iPhone and photograph.  I saw a store that bore the name of one of the kidlets - both first and last name. 

There was the religious bumper sticker worn off that was so telling.  It was suppose to read, "Got eternal life?"  Instead, it now read, "Got eternal li e?" Oh, how to photograph that would have been a gem!  

There are the mom and pop stores throughout the New Hampshire countryside that make me realize that all is well with the world.  Why? The small, the familiar, where one can enter and know that they will be greeted as if they were a local, even if they drove seventy-five miles from Boston.   Breadman and I talked this weekend about where we'd eventually like to be when we retire.  I think I'd like to be in a small, Vermont town, as long as it has a good library.  But upon discovering New Hampshire today, I was surprised.  I always thought of New Hampshire as being the Pheasant Lane Mall.  Oh, does my suburban upbringing ring loud and true.  

Keep an open mind.

From motorcycles to guys with dogs to small towns in New Hamsphire, never stop learning.  Keep an open mind. 

Ride on!

xoxo MausiGal

A Tale of Two Twins

Thirteen years ago on April 19th at 4:25 and 4:26 my life changed forever.  Into my world entered twelve pounds of babies - two to be exact.  Kidlet A and Kidlet B  arrived on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, of which I had been denied a latte just hours before by my doctor, as I was going in for an emergency C-section.

That's how I knew they were going to be born.  After months of being disgusted by coffee, I had this intense craving for the bean on the morning of April 19th.  And at Sally Ann's Bakery in Concord, I ordered up that latte and was ready for my weekly visit to the hospital.  As Dads drove to the hospital with me for my weekly twin checkup, I got ready for yet another day of lying in bed and being checked.

Little did I know April 19th would be the day that Kidlet A and Kidlet B would arrive.  At that point I didn't know if they were boys, girls, or one of each.  We didn't even have two girls names picked out.  Should they have been girls, one would have definitely been Dagney, after the character in Ayn Rand's book.  Gosh, how I loved the name Dagney!  But I also adored the names I had chosen for Kidlet A and Kidlet B.

And so thirteen years have passed.  With twins, life is different.  Yes, parenting is a pleasure and a pain, we'll all admit that.  But I'm going to be full of myself and say being a mom to a dynamic duo brings situations like no other.  The kidlets are fraternal twins which look nothing alike.  Over the years we've had bizarre encounters.  I've been asked such things as, "Are you sure they're twins?"  There was also the time in the supermarket checkout line when a foreign person's son began to lick one of the kidlet's cheeks upon hearing they were twins.  Why?  I don't know.  All I do know is the minute I got to the almighty Volvo I smeared Kidlet (I won't reveal to them which one was affected) with cleansing wipes.  Weirdness.

We celebrated their birthday with a family party on Sunday, the day before the horrific attack in Boston.  When I received the call from Mama about the Boston bombing the kidlets and I were in Old Navy.  My first reaction was to go on with normalcy - keep shopping then onto Barnes and Noble and not tell them their beautiful city had been marred.  But I didn't chose that option.  I told them there had been a terrorist attack, that we needed to stay informed, and life needed to go on.

My sons were to visit Washington, D.C. later in the week, and I'll admit I was nervous.  But what do I want for my kidlets?  I want the world to be a place that they can explore, learn, and meet people who expand their minds.  I want them to see the things that I have seen - the Andes mountains at sunset, the stars from the Amazon jungle, Lapland in the summertime.  And yes, I want them to go back to downtown Boston with me on a summer day and stroll those very same streets we have walked prior to April 15th, relaxing afterwards on Boston Common with a ride in the Swan Boats.  Life is meant to be lived.

I remember reading Richard Rohr a few years ago about how we live in a culture of hate.  We can no longer do this.  We need to live in a culture of love and acceptance, and this must be built for our children.  In order to do that, we cannot live behind closed walls, behind computers, and texting on iPhones.  To see humanity, interact with one another, and gather the human experience is essential.

Define yourself by what you love, not what you hate.  A promise to my twins.

Poet's Statement

(This was an assignment for my Poetry Workshop.  I really enjoyed writing it, and thought I would publish it here.  Enjoy.  -xoxo MausiGal)

I saw myself as a poet long before I envisioned myself a writer of fiction.  In high school and college I was well-known for crafting verse rather than my literary works.  So, when the opportunity arose this semester to return to the writing of poetry, I welcomed the opportunity.  For years the busy-ness business of life has left me without the time to think about poetry - both in writing and reading, other than those wonderful poems that appear in The New Yorker each week, which leave me pondering for the few moments I have before I drift off to sleep.

I found it difficult to write on demand - I’ll be honest about that.  In the past I could compose poetry on a whim: by Lake Champlain in Vermont, at my desk in school in between classes, and in the checkout line at the supermarket on the back on an old receipt.  But this semester?  I was forced to go beyond my limits and explore topics which I would not necessarily consider on my own.  I missed the freedom of being able to compose when I wanted to, and to which subject I wanted to address.  But what did this do for me?

It became the catalyst for the writing of more poetry...outside of the assignments.

This morning as I drove through the public library parking lot at 6:30 am an idea struck me, and I whipped out the iPhone and began to write a poem.  I was inspired by my hometown local diner at such an early hour.  The rush of getting that idea out in a unique manner through words was alive!  

I’ll admit I’ve had my frustrations as a poet this semester.  I prefer free verse.  I am an over-achiever, and so fear that the use of free verse makes me appear lazy.  I have so tried to write in iambic pentameter.  Oh, how I fail!  For the life of me I cannot do syllables in English.  Give me Spanish - no hay problema.  ¿Pero inglés?  Hay problema.  I so hate making my poems into cutesy pictures as well.  Who wants to see a poem in the shape of something?  My snarky side comes out and scoffs.  Sorry, but I find it so kitsch.  I wrote a poem about a pinup girl.  Would anyone really want to see boobs and hips in a poetic form?  (Well, probably, dare I ask!)  For me free verse is accessible to all.  It is unpretentious.  When formed correctly, with the right breaks among lines and stanzas it has amazing impact upon the reader.  

The poem which had the greatest impact on me this semester was One Art by Elizabeth Bishop (Vendler, p. 175).  I have this poem photocopied and posted in my office next to my computer.  In addition, I have highlighted the lines, “Write it!”  Every now and then we, as readers, find a poem which speaks directly to us.  This was my poem.  I have dealt with huge loss over the past few years, primarily my divorce after fifteen years of marriage.  I worry about the loss of my father, who suffers from CLL (chronic lymphocytic leukemia).  He was given three years to live six years ago.  I have yet to compose a poem about him.  But when I do write, I try to make him proud.

Like Elizabeth Bishop, I see myself writing about everyday emotions in the future, perhaps even loss.  However, as she does with keys, a house, and continents, I also wish to combine everyday items into my works so that the reader may view the ordinary into the extraordinary.  I want my readers to be taken to new emotional heights with my poems, to undergo a paradigm shift in their way of thinking.  Hours, days, months, maybe even years after reading my works I want them to have a moment where they exclaim, “Wow!  I need those words by my computer!”  For the reader to grow, transform from my words would be the ultimate honor.  

Poetry is a glimpse, for me, into the madness and wonders of the world.  A poem can capture you up in a matter of minutes with just words, then stay with you and never leave.  This semester I’ve tried to explore such topics as mania, alcoholism, and self-identity.  Where will my fountain pen go next?  One can never know.  I’ll have to go take a drive and see...

Procrastination Liberation

I've blogged again and again about what a busy person I am, to the point where people may think I'm bragging.  But upon thinking this morning, I wonder how much of it I just bring upon myself with procrastination.  Truly, could I do a lot more if I budgeted my time differently? 

Ah, the Type A overachiever in me!  If I stop eating and found a more efficient way to shower could I possibly have time to blog every day and write out more postcards?

So not logical.  But is there any logic when a mania sets in?  Definitely not.  Unfortunately I'm not in a manic state right now to get through the projects I need to get through - a huge lesson plan for Spanish class, the need to view "Death in Granada" for Saturday (sounds so upbeat), type a reflection for Tuesday for my mentor class, create a poet's statement (yeah, about my life as a poet) for Tuesday, and redo my poetry portfolio for Tuesday.

All this pretty much on the Hotbox computer which dies on a whim from overheating, and has a keyboard that sticks and doesn't like to type A, Y, and refuses to do Spanish accents so I have to cut and paste them.  Oh, and let's add that I can no longer cut and paste - I have to go up to the tool bar and do it from there.

/scene.  Enough kvetching for one blog post.  I'm done in twenty-seven days with this madness that I've imposed upon myself.  Then I'm sure I'll find another madness.  That's MausiGal.  I need to have activity in my life - whether that be just reading a book on a Friday night.  I am never bored. 

But instead of working on my lesson plan, right now I'm blogging, and listening to music on Pandora.  I want to bake cookies.  I want to catch up on scanning postcards.  I want to organize my lingerie drawer.  I want to chat with Sis in the Netherlands.  I want, I want, I want!  But I can't. 

I suppose to put out a quality product I do need these breaks of thought.  This past weekend I went for my first motorcyle ride since college and had an amazing time. Could I have been working on my projects?  Of course.  But I was so relaxed and happy after this weekend that I feel like I am ready to get these next twenty seven days conquered. 

For the next twenty minutes I will write out postcards instead of about immigration and how seventh graders may view it.  The fountain pen is mightier than the sticky keyboard.  Music playing, cat sitting right next to the HotBox (for the heat, of course), I am ready to be rejuveniated before digging in for the final stretch.

My Favorite Things!

I'm trying to make today a good day.  I truly am.  It started off with my usual waking up at 4am, and then getting the java brewing in the Keuring.  After, I race downstairs to throw a load of laundry in.  All is good.

What did I do next?  I make the mistake of checking my work email.  A scathing electronic correspondence greeted me at my screen, and then another with a question that will leave me unnerved throughout the weekend.

Note to self - stop checking work email over the flippin' weekend!  It does me NO GOOD!  I need to take the weekends to just relax and escape from it all.  I truly do.

So, to refresh myself I'd like to list some of my favorite things.  Yes, I need to improve my mood.  I used to make lists when I was younger.  Here goes things that I love, albeit it's a materialistic list.  Of course I adore my family, friends, and pets.  Isn't that a given?  Presented below are the those items that make me smile, perk me up, and just get me out of a funk.

-venti caramel macchiatos with whipped cream
-young adult books
-Volvos
-moonstones
-happy text messages (I actually save them and re-read them like letters)
-postcards
-fountain pens
-stuffed animals, especially mice!
-gnomes
-good luck charms
-bread with butter and jam/marmalade
-Burdick's chocolates and dark hot chocolate
-Ticonderoga pencils
-my Chromebook baby, which I miss :(
-my Gama-Go wallet.  Love Gama-Go!
-iPhone (I've become such an addict to the CrackBox)
-cookie cutters (ah, see above the new additions to my collection!)
-my cobalt blue Kitchen Aid mixer
-Pandora radio

So, the list could go on and on, I'm sure.  Tell me what you love.  Share!  Please do!  Make me happy!

xoxo MausiGal

The End Is Near

Right now people are starting to wonder.  I have an apocalyptic title to this entry, and then above my banner seems Biblical.

No worries.  I'm jamming out to Kei$a, drinking my second cup of coffee at 5:23 am, and was just chasing my cat, Avi, to see him run up the wall.  Life is good.

So what's the scoop?  I have a month left of the intense life I've been living for the past year of graduate classes.  I decided last February to dive into completing a Master's +30 program to move up the teacher's ladder at my school.  Most people do this over a period of years.

I decided to do it in about a year.

Far be it for MausiGal to do anything half way, right?  I began last February with a course in dealing with difficult parents.  Right away I loved being back in the classroom as a student.  But I discovered one thing about myself.  As an adult learner I strive for perfection.  I need that 4.0.  I was the same in graduate school when I finished my master's degree five years ago.

I am currently in two graduate classes - a Spanish one at Merrimack College and a poetry workshop at Rivier University.  Both places have amazing professors whom I enjoy.  In one class at Rivier I did not score my blessed 4.0.  And that killed me.  That class - Contemporary Drama -  was probably the toughest class I've taken in my academic career.  My final project involved a Finnish play in which a psychologist dressed up like a dog and gave therapeutic sessions.  Hmmm...  And then he walked around naked.

Last summer I took three courses, during which I had one intensive week that I had to finish two major projects.  Luckily my boys were with their dad, as they didn't have to witness that madness that ensued when my neighbors were playing music and I was trying to write about a Midsummer Night's Dream at 7am on a Sunday.

Yes, and then autumn came.  I had a therapist tell me not to do this, but I didn't listen.  I worked full time.  I was a single mom.  I took three classes.  And a part-time class on being a mentor in school.  I was assigned to Mentee.  I ran two clubs at school.  I kept dating.

Oh my gawd.

Is it any wonder I'm addicted to caffeine?  The only life I've known for the past year is getting up at 4am, studying, coming home, doing more work on either school or grad school, taking little breaks here and there to either blog or send out a few postcards.  My weekends tend to be like this, unless I escape.  Escaping is good for me; it allows me to become the person I am and get a reality check when I'm not working on all this stuff.  I do need to step away from it all to gain perspective, even if it's just watching a movie or going out for Pelligrino with a friend (thank you, Preppy Girl, for the night we had a few weeks ago - you were just what the doctor ordered).

But on April 30th it's over.  My classes have a royal send off with a poetry reading at Rivier.  I'm a bit nervous, as I feel my poetry this semester is so adolescent.  It's as if I'm channeling Taylor Swift in rhyme.

So why the banner?  It's been my motto that I've kept with me all these months, all these years.  The words are from my dad - "Keep the faith."  I don't think he has any idea how strong these words are to me.  And "Just know?"  My own addition, for everyone else.  Just know it all comes together in the end.

Crimson Day!

There are some things that really make me happy  Driving into Cambridge is one of my all time favorites, and today afforded that opportunity as I was able to attend a Teachers As Scholars program at Harvard University.  Wowsa!  Zooming down Route 2, as I crest a hill seeing the skyline of Boston is such a rush.  Yes, I adore the lakeside of Vermont, but the feel of being int he city beats to my heart as well.

I was an hour early so I was able to hang out at the amazing Burdick's Chocolates.  Sipping on a dark hot chocolate while the cafe was nearly empty was so relaxing.  I needed a day like this after the few weeks I've had.  I've been up, I've been down.  I've joked in postings here about the large amounts of caffeine I've been drinking - not so funny.  It adds to my anxiety.  Springtime for me only brings on depression (a topic for another blog post), and I'm trying to come to terms with that.  While people are talking about tulips and daffodils and bunnies and added sunshine, I want to go to bed and cry.  But today, sitting in Burdicks, I felt a confidence and strength that I haven't felt in a while.  Once again I was KRISTIN.

I started to think back to one of the best times I've ever had at Burdick's - meeting up with a former student/cheerleader from my times at St. Edward High School in Elgin, Illinois, my first teaching job.  I'm still in touch with MissMolly, who has impressed me with her ability to live around the globe and become the most amazing person, never once losing her zest for life.  I want to continue to live like her - once again an example of the student instructing the teacher.  When she contacts me on Facebook I can't help but smile.  Her energy transcends the miles!  When she calls me "Coach" I am once again brought back to the gym, having her challenge me on some silly topic during cheerleading practice.  My hair was blonde, I was in my early twenties, and had no idea what life would hold.

The early morning city always holds so much friendliness.  I prefer it to later in the day, when everyone is lost in their own selves.  As I wandered around the streets of Harvard Square, I talked to a few of the delivery men, greeting them with a "Good morning," and making small talk.  Perhaps they felt bad for me, as suburban  Mausi Gal didn't take her coat, thinking this thirty something degree day was going to reach the fifties!  Not so.  The chit chat and basic familiarity was a nice start to the day.  My primary thought was how I want the kidlets to experience this.  They need to see the city in its innocence.  I also began to ponder on a book I read while in college - The Shape of Content.  Everyone should read this.  Appreciate everything for what it is.  Experience everything.  Go.  Do.  Live.  Oh, how I forget this!

The class?  My topic was "Fearless Teaching."  What can I say, except that I was taken out of my comfort zone from the minute I tried to use my iPhone to walk there (of course I got lost), and then had to do exercises in pairs with my eyes closed.  It's a two part class, so next week I get to return.  We learned a number of activities, theatrical in nature, which we can incorporate into the classroom.  Although I consider myself an extrovert, when it comes to being forced to connect to people I get anxious.  And this class made me anxious!  At one point I had to be led around the room with my eyes closed by a partner, led only by her voice.  I have an issue with differentiating sounds, so that added a difficult dimension to the activity.  I so wanted to cry.  But my partner was so kind.  I have to remember that - people are generally good.  They will help you.

Following lunch with another teacher (also a wonderful person) I had time to wander around Harvard Square alone.  I visited my favorite store, filled with postcards and stationery, of course:

Black Ink is amazing.  Not only do they have a plethora of paper products of which I'm addicted, but they offer little items that would make the best surprises for my four year old niece and nephew, MissEmma and DrewBits.  I had to keep my wallet closed as I browsed around the store.  I finally settled on a magnetic Scrabble kit for my classroom, postcards for Postcrossing, and a book titled, "The Tiny Book of Tiny Stoires."  All I can say is this - buy this book.  It will make you think.  It will make you cry.  It will make you laugh.  The words are the smallest of stories, all wrapped up in a few sentences, but oh how they will grow in your imagination, and either haunt you or fill you with inspiration or glee for hours afterwards.

I will end with my favorite, which made me think of Kidlet A and Kidlet B as they grow older,
"Your heart has a little empty corner.  You won't even know I'm there - I'll be very quiet."

xoxo Mausi Gal

Sugar Mama

Far be it from me to do anything half-hearted.  Go, go go!  I'm  now on a mission to make THE BEST SUGAR COOKIES EVER for my niece and nephew for Easter.  Yes, in the memory of Aunt Eleanor's wonderful treats from my own childhood, I would like to continue the tradition of those crispy, delectable goodies on that Sunday afternoon after a dinner filled with foods I was forced to eat.  Oh my, there was a time in my life when I didn't eat and was stick thin skinny.  I was tempted with these sugar cookies as a way to get me to eat a regular meal.  I just never ate - had no interest at the young ages of five or six.  Who would want to waste time on creamed salmon when they could go torture the neighborhood boys in the fort made on the swing set?

Sis-in-lawSBUX (we met at Starbucks, hence her forever nickname) is also a baker.  She's a kitchen hottie.  She makes amazing cakes.  I adore her.  Sis-in-lawSBUX made this rockin' cake for her son, DrewBits, that was his favorite digger truck (what is a "digger?"  Um...  I don't know the official term.  It digs things.  Deal with it.)  This cake even had chocolate rocks.  So, when I scored a coupon from King Arthur Flour in Vermont I texted her right away.  Who else to share the wealth?  Ten dollars off!

And we shopped.

Sis-in-lawSBUX was very good.  Limits were kept with her.  Me?  Not so much.  I went on a sugar spree.  Whee!  See photo at the beginning of this post.  Kidlet B commented, "So, have enough sugar for a third world country now?"  But MissEmma and DrewBits need colors!  Colors!  Their sugar cookies have to be pretty!  Light blue and bright blue. Brilliant green and spring green.  Pink!  Granted, three of the bottles in the above photo do belong to Sis-in-lawSBUX.  So I'm not all that bad, right?

I also picked out the cutest little cutters.

Each one is about two inches big.  Petite little sugar cookies.  Ah, c'est bonne!  Je parle le francais tres mal.  I need to speak French, because for some reason I see that I have a lot of French readers on this blog.  I love France.  Their madeleine cookies are succulent.  I need to find madeleine pans.  Perhaps I can use my 15% off coupon that came with the King Arthur Flour box for that.  Excelent.

I'm off to try a new recipe for these little bits of love.  Time to get out the parchment paper, Cabot butter (from Vermont, of course), sugar, and flour.  This will definitely be a sugar high without consuming one caloric bite!