To Sum Up...

My spring break can basically be described with three phrases:

1. Family/Jack
2. Bug bites
3. Party Hat

I left immediately after school on Friday and didn't come back until yesterday evening. Nothing could have ruined my trip, not even the hundreds of bug bites I got all over my body while in Florida. Hundreds? Yes, hundreds. I counted thirty-five on the lower half of one arm before I fell asleep in the sun. I look like I just fought off a deadly bout of the chicken pox, with slightly raised pink scars covering my legs, torso, neck, and face. Face? Yes, face. I had a string of about twenty going up my neck and onto my left cheek like a chicken pox hickey. And I had one on my nose.

But, like I said, nothing could ruin this trip. It was a well-needed break from my crazy class AND a reminder of the beginning of the end, a benchmark showing only 34 days remaining.

Bookending the vacation was some time spent in Greenville with Jack. The first weekend really initiated him into South Carolina lifestyle. He got to see genuine Southern hospitality (several rounds of drinks on the jolly Clemson family sitting with us at the Hibachi grill, including Patron shots and hot sake). I made him go to a Waffle House for the first time, where we got VIP seats at the breakfast bar in the smoking session. I was unaware that you could still smoke in restaurants anywhere in the United States (or the world for that matter), but if I had to guess the one state where you could, SC would be the first. I'm also convinced that in order to open a Waffle House, one of the stipulations is that everything in and around the vicinity of the building must be at least fifteen years old- the menus, the waffle irons, the waitresses' wigs.

Greenville is actually awesome. For some reason, I pictured it being more rural and run-down, but it has a cute little tree-lined main street with a lot of good restaurants, bars, and shops. Plus my boyfriend lives there, which gives it a lot of points.

Monday meant goodbye to Jack and hello to ten hours in the car listening to NPR and wondering how much better your gas mileage gets if you turn off your AC. I only tested that theory for about 15 minutes.  The drive down was unremarkable, unless you count part of my front grill flying off for no reason. Or all the truckers honking at me because I looked a little naked wearing a strapless dress. You live, you learn.

My actual vacation, on Hutchinson Island off the Atlantic Coast, is indescribable unless you are a part of or have met my mother's side of the family. The legendary Buffalo Zaprowskis, headed by the Polish and female equivalent of the Godfather, Nans (also known as the matriarch of the family and the mayor of Ocean Village, the development where we were all staying). I'll try my best to capture the highlights, especially given the fact that a majority of the people who are reading this are probably related to me.

• My first Manhattan: made by my godmother's friend, I finally gave the token family drink a try... and loved it. My grandfather's last meal was a Manhattan and a piece of cake, so it had sentimental value. Especially after the buzz kicked in.
• My uncle's drunk dials: college freshman girls have nothing on my Uncle Mark. Any chance he got he was picking up the phone and calling the few people who were NOT on the trip (aka 70% of this blog's audience). This, along with his absolutely delicious pre-noon drinks (Salty Dogs and Bloody Mary's, anyone?), earned him MVP of Spring Break.
• Karaoke at the Jetty Lounge: This place has a liquor store attached to it, one that I've been going to for almost five years before realizing that the second door led into one of the shadiest (and greatest) bars I've ever been to. The group we went with (all Buffalonians and all pumped up about the Sabres) took over, shouting random Buffalo chants into the DJ's microphone so often we almost got kicked out. The best part of the night (if you can pick one) was our 20 person rendition of "Shout," when we tried unsuccessfully to sound like we were at a Bills game. Unfortunately, no one knew the real Bills words and my cousin couldn't pull his weight with the vocals... plus I'm pretty sure the only things Bills fans want to shout are profanities.
• The burgeoning plans for Cousin's Camp 2011: I've written a post or two about Cousin's Camp... but this past week we decided that a new adult Cousin's Camp be founded... at Kristin and Ryan's apartment. Ready? Oh yeah.
• The party hat: I bought a straw fedora specifically for this trip. And I did not take it off the entire time I was there, except when I showered. It was really hard to not wear it to school this morning, even just for a few minutes, to boost my mood.
• Reclaiming my spot as the favorite cousin and grandchild: Maybe it was how cool I am to my high school cousins. Maybe it was my willingness to try a Manhattan. Maybe it was my pious observance of Good Friday while my meat-eating cousins were told by Nana that they were going to hell (this was before she forgot it was Good Friday and my cousin Laura allowed her to eat half a turkey sandwich before reminding her and telling her, "I guess I'll be seeing you in hell."). Maybe it was the party hat. Whatever it was, I'm on top. And I love it.

Nailed it.

That's all for tonight. Today really brought me back to reality, but it's going to take more than a pouting 7 year old (or two, or three) to bring me down from this kind of happiness.

Right?

When you're little, there are right choices and there are wrong choices. Example of a right choice: listening to your teacher. Example of a wrong choice: trying to fit your entire fist into your mouth during social studies. Most kids have a pretty good grasp over whether they're making a right choice or a wrong choice.  This makes my job easy because all I have to say is "What did you do?" and they usually give it all up, pouting their heads into their arms and sobbing out, "I tried to put the math manipulatives up my nose."

Not so when you are adult. Yes, there is still right and wrong but much fewer people to police the decision you are making. In elementary school, people help you choose the books you read and the lunches you eat. "That story's too easy for you," they say. "Eating too many jelly beans will give you a belly ache." As a grown-up, it's all gone. You're left to make your choices on your own and deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. How are we supposed to know whether we're on the right track when we don't have a clip chart or a report card?

I got to thinking about it this week mainly because I was getting a little freaked out about submitting my law school deposit (which I did today). Eek. It didn't help when a rather distant acquaintance informed me at TFA learning teams that "This is, like, the worst time EVER to go to law school." Really? No way. I thought going into six figures of debt was ALWAYS a good decision (and, on a side note, it's not a very good time to do anything right now, including find a job, buy gas, or visit Japan... so what's your point?). It got me more freaked out. How am I sure I'm doing the right thing? How do I know?

Well, to start, I don't know. And I don't think I'll ever know. That's a hard thing to accept, especially for a crazy planning organizing psycho like myself. I don't go to sleep without planning out what I'm going to eat the next day, so you can imagine how frequently I've tried to map out my life. It hardly ever works that way, because something always gets in the way. And if it doesn't, you're spending the whole time wondering when something MIGHT get in the way. I'm trying to do that with my next steps and I had to remind myself last night that things might never work out the way I plan for them to. And sometimes they might work out exactly the way I plan for them to. There's just no way of knowing for sure.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've decided to just pretend I know for sure. To go at it blind. To move forward with such confidence in purpose that only good things can happen to me because I refuse to see them as anything else. TFA had this silly icebreaker game from Minute to Win It on Monday. Before it even started, I knew I was going to win. Why? Because you won a plastic egg full of candy and I wanted it. Because I'm competitive. But mostly because I made my mind up that I was going to do it. I didn't know how- though I love cookies I've never practiced moving them around my body using twitching motions- but I did end up winning. And devouring the stupid egg.

I know not everything works like that, but I think the mindset helps. Hey, I went into teaching like that and look where it got... oh crap.

This post is rambling on, but I'm convinced that if I've made it this far relying on my gut and a whole lot of faith, I'll be just fine.

The Nod

I went for a run yesterday in the neighborhood next to my apartment complex. I love going over there, especially in the spring, because the houses are all beautiful brick ones with rolling lawns and huge old trees. There are usually a lot of people walking around too, meaning my run is frequently interrupted by friendly waves and smiles. Which I like.

For awhile, I hated running outside. I hated passing other runners who would give you what I like to call the runner's nod, a cursory head jerk acknowledging that you are both fitness machines. More often than not, I felt like the nod was filled to the brim with judgment- What does she think she's doing out here? the nod would say. She's not a runner! Poser!


I blame my dad.

Why? When we were little, we did a lot of driving around town. I'm not really sure why. I remember piling leaves on top of my dad's creepy child-molester looking van (a red and white Dodge caravan with a three-seat bench in the middle and a huge trunk... who buys that for real? Even if you do have to carry hurdles and shotputs around?) and driving down the street, watching them fly off the roof as my sister, brother, and I crouched looking out the back window. Not safe on a NUMBER of levels. We did the same thing with snow.

Anyway, we drove around a lot. And whether we were on road trips or just driving in an unsafe manner around Painted Post, my dad did this thing when he would see people running on the side of the road. He categorized them into one of three categories.

Category 1- runner. These were the people whose calves would ripple with each lightning-quick step, the people running almost as fast as your car. They were always tan. They were always focused.

Category 2- jogger. Less fashionable running clothes, not quite as tan, and not quite as fast, but all of the joggers looked as if they had a pretty high level of general fitness. Nothing too impressive, but then everyone can't be. This brings us to category 3, the reason why I feel self-conscious running on busy roads or outside in general.

Plodder. Picture a multi-colored windsuit stretching and pulling at the hips and buttocks as if something underneath is trying to squeeze its way out. Picture scrunchies. Picture a person who stops excessively, usually falling over when they try to stretch out their quad. Picture a person putzing along so slowly, so pathetically, that it can't even be considered running. They'd be better off walking. Or crawling. At least then they wouldn't be calling it running. That's a plodder.

Obviously I'm not a plodder, especially since I'm in the Sports Hall of Fame (don't know if everyone knew this). I probably used to be though, and the idea of someone driving by and grouping me in with the windsuited, scrunchy type was too much for me to bear. So I avoided it.

Yesterday was probably the first day that I got a nod that did not scream "Plodder!", even if those nods were completely dreamed up in my head. I finally got a nod that hinted I might actually be a runner now, a veteran of the streets.

Or maybe it's just southern manners. I'll never know.

The Little Things

Yesterday was a bad day. See previous post. Today seemed worse... and not because something happened that was worse than one of my babies leaving me.

What happened? I wouldn't say it was just one thing. The kids were fine today, apart from me having to work my butt off to keep Mr. Hyperactive from tearing my room apart. After school, though, I found out a major problem with the one-on-one testing I've been doing all week. I kind of got thrown under the bus. But it happens, and even though it sucks, it's something that has to happen. I ended up spending two and half hours after school pulling stuff that will keep my kids busy all day (NOT an easy feat), which is what put me in my initial bad mood.

Then, the little things took over.

When I say little things, I mean things that seem pretty minor unless they happen to you on a bad day. Example? Stubbing your toe. That hurts. A lot. You almost always say "fuck" when you stub your toe. Chuck Norris winces when he stubs his toe. But no one ever feels bad for you when it happens because it happens to everyone. Arguably, that's what makes those things suck. Because as much as they hurt, you never get any sympathy... just a "Suck it up."

Other little things that suck:

• Running into the corner of a table and getting an instant bruise.
• Breaking a nail. And I don't mean an "Oh no, I chipped my manicure" kind of break. I mean the kind of nail break that makes your finger about as useless as not having opposable thumbs. The kind that leaves you unable to pick up dimes for a week.
• Dropping a stack of very particularly organized papers. On a windy day.
• Scraping your knee (insert overplayed Family Guy clip)

I bet you never saw it coming that every single one of those things happened to me at once today as I walked to my car. Let me paint the picture- I was reaching into my bag to get my keys, carrying a plastic bin full of worksheets for my kids tomorrow. Distracted, I stubbed my toe. I flew forward. I reached forward to brace myself on my car, tore of my thumbnail, jammed the bin into my ribcage (not the exact equivalent of running into the corner of a table, but close enough), then fell to the concrete and scraped my knee. The papers? In the air. Blowing all over the parking lot.

Not that I'm trying to get anyone to feel bad for me (I am though), but it sucked. Rotten disgusting cherry on top of my pretty bad day. I fumed about it and wrote this blog in my head on the commute home and remained angry until a peanut butter DQ Blizzard erased most of the trauma. Except the stubbed toe and broken nail. Those HURT.

Stability

Learning from a traumatic lesson today. One of my favorite kids, or at least my most quirky and adorable one, had his last day today unexpectedly because of a parent custody issue. His mom came in during the middle of the day out of nowhere and 15 minutes later, he was gone. Moved. He came to school with everything normal, believing he'd be back home at 2:00. I came to school believing he'd be in my class the rest of the year. If it was traumatic for me to have to say goodbye to him so abruptly, I can't even imagine what it would be like for him.

The most heartbreaking part is the fact that this kid is below grade level but has finally been getting it. Things have been clicking for him and he's been growing like crazy the last few weeks. Now he'll be at a new school, probably back at square one because he's not used to their expectations and routines. I worry about him.

It made me grateful for the sense of stability I have in my own life, even though I've been complaining about it since January. No matter how much things are up in the air with school and jobs and all of that, ultimately I know that I'm coming home to the same apartment every day and can trust that the people supporting me will be there for me. It's a perspective shift.

And with that shift I make my official announcement- da da da DA- that I WILL be going to law school next year, officially. No more "Well, I don't know..." or "I haven't decided yet...". BU School of Law, here I come. I'm taking advantage of the solid ground I have under my feet and just biting the bullet. My deposit check is written, sealed, and ready to be mailed. Although maybe I won't mail it just yet...

Some things might never change.