LIM: SOC for The Rest of Us

photo credit: Steve took it via photopin cc

Friday night, and just like I'm having to declutter and make way for the new Christmas presents coming our way, it's the same doing with a weekly brain cleanse.

The LIM, Loose Inner Monologue brain dump--since I'm too chicken for a brain drill. I've set aside Friday night as the night I just let it all out and make room for the new crazy. My thoughts aren't sophisticated or linear enough for a civil Stream of Consciousness, so I've got my own blog space here to hang it up to dry.

The role of blogging as a mental health tool is seriously overlooked.

My third LIM, loose inner monologue, right here, where it belongs--out into the universe and out of my packed head.

This Week's LIM, Loose Inner Monologue: because streaming thoughts? Not so much. More like a karate chop response to my immediate environment.

Is it menopause? Is it perimenopause? Is it tomandjerrykatyperrypause? I don't know, but all I can do lately is wish for the days I once had and wonder where the heck time goes and look at my kids whose faces still look like this to me ...

... and try and figure out why I have to look up when I talk to them. My God but they were beautiful.

And oh oh oh but everything is a trigger lately. Seriously. I had to hold it together at the supermarket this morning when Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast came on. You know how hard it is to shop for kids with food allergies because you have to read labels and you can't even read the ingredients because your eyes are blurry with katyperrymenopausal tears because "Daddy? Don't you walk so fast!" came on?

Triggers everywhere. I can't even go grocery shopping now? What the? I can't see a Froot Loops, or an Apple Jacks, or their once favorite: Cheerios.

Grocery store music kills me. Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast kills me. I remember when they were so little and now they're teenagers. Late teenagers. How could they be teenagers already?

I can't believe I'm not the mother of little kids anymore. We used to go through Costco loads of Cheerios. We'd make Cheerios necklaces with red licorice shoestrings. Now there's a fun way to live, with a snack around your neck 24/7.

I can't believe what a caricature of a weepy-eyed mother I've become. Barely holding it together while I make it through the cereal aisle. Sheesh. just make it out of the store in one piece, woman, and pray no one you know sees you huddled on the floor wailing "Why? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy??" while clutching a box of Cheerios to your chest. 

And just when I put the Cheerios back and think I'll make it out of Aisle 5 safely, I spy ohmygod THE FROOT LOOPS. They used to LOVE Froot Loops. We learned how to sort according to color with Froot Loops.

Why, why, why you got to be like that, Father Time?

You know, if this supermarket was smart, they'd wanna keep me in here longer because I am a shopping kind of gal. If they put on some naughty Justin Bieber singing to this middle aged mama all about "If I Was Your Boyfriend," they'd be getting a lot bigger chunk of my husband's change. All spent in Aisle 7, Health and Beauty. New hair dye? Justin's makin' me feel it. In the cart. Is this red lipstick too dark for a woman of certain years? Mama don't think so. Toss it in. Ooooh, extra lengthening fibers mascara Super Lash in blackest black? I think two will do. One for my place, one for Justin's.

Who pays these store music people? Because this place is getting ripped off. I'd show them how to get someone to open their purse like a parting of the red sea.

***

 


Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.

"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."  

Dear Miss Quill

This post is written for the great teachers out there, the ones that go beyond their job description. Teachers like you make a difference every day in the lives of kids, like the kind I used to be. Thank you.

***

English is not my first language, Spanish is.

I went to grade school in the early 70s, where a non-English speaking child was placed in what was then called "Special C" classes, short for Special Curriculum. There were no ESL programs, or mainstreamed classrooms, I was in a room with all types of kids, with all types of Special C needs. I did a lot of playing--mostly with Colorforms. I had taught myself to read at home, with my grandmother's Spanish books, but there were no books in Spanish at school, so I colored a lot instead.

There were numbers, math. That I could do. Math. You didn't need English to do math. My days were spent with unusual children, like me, at an open floor space. There were no desks, we were on our mats, playing with shapes, doing random math, and coloring. I went through crisp white coloring pages like popcorn.

Aside from not speaking English as well as the others, I was also odd in another way: my lunches. Papaya, mango, goat cheese. I was odd, there is no other way to put it--but, also smart. That I didn't know yet.

My kindergarten teacher was happy with me, as was my first grade teacher--I was always quiet in the corner. I never caused anyone any problems, any extra work, any anything for anybody. I can't remember the names of my kindergarten or first grade teachers. But, in the second grade, I met Miss Quill.

From the first day I was with her, Miss Quill looked at me. She made eye contact with me on a daily basis. Her eyes were green, a hazelly green. She had pupils that vibrated back and forth like hummingbirds, but I got used to that. When I think back on it, I can figure out that she must have just graduated from college--she shared a house with two or three other young women. She was like me, odd. Tall, with a peculiar exaggerated gait. Her hair was the straightest hair I'd ever seen, and stopped just below her earlobes. Miss Quill dressed in simple patterns, except for the days she wore my favorite--her green and yellow paisley shirt dress. With everything, she wore her predictable ivory square-toed pumps.

She brought books for me to read at school, and math games. She'd read to me when I'd visit her (you could do that back then.) On the weekends, she'd take me to the library. We'd pick out books in English for me and she was always amazed at the size stack I chose. She would have me over to her house, where together we'd do art projects with cut out raw potatoes and stamp pads. All on that wonderfully huge school issue construction paper.

For Christmas, Miss Quill gave me my first books in English, Little House on The Prairie. I still have them. Of course, the year ended, and I went on to third grade. I don't remember that teacher's name. All would have been the same for me as it was in kindergarten, and first grade--with me in a corner, quietly doing math problems except that this time, I started out the third grade school year with a head full of English books that had been read to me, memories of trips to the library, and art projects hanging on the walls of my bedroom.

At the start of the third grade, I was sent for placement testing. On that one day, after I was tested and then re-tested, because the examiner couldn't believe my scores, and then was interviewed over and over about when and where I had suddenly learned to read and write so well, I was pulled out of the "Special C" classroom and placed into the gifted/talented classroom. This was the 70s; there were no IEP's, no parent/teacher conference; no notifications that went home. Things were just done.

I don't know what happened to Miss Quill after second grade. I was too little to know how to keep track of her and our school had two buildings: one for lower grades, one for upper grades. But I never forgot her presence in my life. I've often wanted to write her, call her, find her, to tell her Miss Quill? I love you. Do you know that, Miss Quill? I wish I had known enough to tell you then. I'm saying it now, and I'm hoping the universe somehow carries this message to you.

Little House on The Prairie (I finished it in one day)

In and Around The Lake She Just Stands There

Turns out you don't have to get high and spin donuts on freshly fallen snow in an empty parking lot for kicks.

You can try the new roundabouts that are sadly popping up at just about every entrance to Walmart. A roundabout can undo me like little else can. Please lie to me and tell me it's not just me. My post at AimingLow, Why I Hate Roundabouts. (and no, hate is not too strong a word.)

See you there, and please leave a piece of advice--because I have no idea how to find my way out of those.

xo

ICYMI

Just sitting here, balancing my bowl of Special K on my knees. The box promises that if I all day/every day  do bowls of their cereal, I'll drop a jean size in two weeks. What have I got to lose? (sorry, couldn't help myself.)

I'll let you know in two weeks. In the meantime, this week's edition of In Case You Missed It, some of the best, brightest, funniest, sweetest, saddest, all around good reads on the internet. How I love the internet, it's like an endless issue of Ladies' Home Journal. With a whole lot more self disclosure.

In Case You Missed It: This was good on the internet

--My friend, Mark, of Our Simple Lives. I love this blogger: his photos together with how you know he knows what's important, always sets my day on the right course. A few seconds there is all you need today, with his Ode To Christmas with Children. He says it all with one photo, one phrase, "And so it begins."

--One of the  funniest things I read today: from the must follow Gawker site. The highlights of Lindsay Lohan in Liz and Dick. Funny, funny. Example, "She breathes heavy a lot. She cries a lot." Gawker with "Here Are The Highlights of Lindsay Lohan's Atrocious Acting in Liz and Dick."

--Tomorrow is #GivingTuesday. For everything you need to know about this special day, click over to Alexandra Sears of Alexandrawrote. Click over and get the give out. Anyone can do their part, there is no such thing as "too small," and there are more ways to give than through money.

--This made me laugh out loud. Louis CK's SNL skit parodying the movie Lincoln. Saw the movie with my teens and fell in love with it, but this "Lincoln: The Man" via SNL is hilarious. (seeing "lincoln" doing stand up: priceless)

Have a great week, everyone!

LIM: aka SOC For The Rest of Us

I think I'm going to have to have a button made up for LIM Friday Edition here. A party of one: me. That's one of a thousand reasons I love having a blog: you can always make a place for yourself where you'll fit in.

Last week I ran a post, LIM: Loose Inner Monologue: my version of the SOCs, the stream of consciousness memes that run on the internet. I never felt my thoughts were heady or introspective enough to be linked along with everyone else's, but I enjoyed the thought of  just typing away, no red light stopping you.

That's the premise behind my LIM. Tapping it out, as it comes, no worries about paling in comparison to the post above or the one below.


My Loose Inner Monologue here, for me, because it's like the last train to Clarksville, thoughts. Grab a hold as it leaves the station.

LIM Brain Dump of The Week: (because other than drilling a hole in your skull, how are you gonna declutter?) 


How do people get money to buy stuff? I'd love a treadmill, a new dishwasher, a cage hatch over the chimney to keep that dang 50 lb possum or raccoon or whatever it is that drags in and something else along with it, into our chimney every night. It's like bang drag bang drag. A mini Dr Frankencoon and his assistant there, every night, 11 pm on the dot. I'm calling somebody. 

That hoot owl at 3 a.m. is only majestic for so long, too. I know what's his face, that blonde singer from the 70's, Michael Murphy sang about the hoot owl outside his window like a love song, but not me. It's like spending the night at a zoo--it's winter, I know they're all looking for shelter, I know. But can't they go back to the woods?

I love having teens. Watching Movie Classics with them is funnier than Jerry Seinfeld on Dave Letterman. I could run a depression service: rent my teens out to watch movies with you. As good as Mystery Science Theater. I'd go along, of course--don't want to start getting emails telling me I can't rent out kids. Have people lost their sense of kidding lately? 

Or is it true, what my teens tell me. "Mom, I know you think you're funny, but your ideas just scare and worry people."

I wonder if what people say, that the music you heard in your teens will be your favorite music forever, goes for clothes, too. It might be true for music, because when Stevie Nicks comes on the radio, I don't change the station. And when I pick out clothes for my kids, I go to the earth tones, the soft beiges and greys and taupes. They call it Mom's District 12 taste, I call it in memory of The Doobie Brothers.

Why do I have to eat something just because it's good and in front of me. I don't have to. I can walk past it. I just have to try to not give in, and feel success, just once.

Or just eat it all at once, too, so it doesn't tempt me anymore. Why doesn't anyone ever get full on pie? 

*** 

Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.

"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."