The time has come...

the walrus said, for SF to fade away.

When I started this blog, I was in a very different place in my life. I had more time, and I viewed life through a different lens. I know I will miss it, and I may regret this decision the minute I click publish, but Surreptitiously Facetious isn't me anymore.

Chances are I will start another blog (after a bit if a break), one that is a better reflection of the me I am now. If anyone is interested in being notified if that happens, please feel free to comment on this post or email me.


It's been a good ride. Farewell, and thanks to all.

The perfect cure

Hours spent talking with friends, sharing leftover wedding cake along with our lives.

Nine hours of sleep.

Finishing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, for the second time, completing a read-through of all seven books begun the day I finished it the first time.

Lying on my hammock, looking up at the most perfect sky ever created, knowing it was creating exclusively for me out of unfathomable love.

Sunlight.

Healing for a sad and tired heart.

Hard week.

I know it's been a long time, and this will probably be a long, whiny post, so I apologize in advince for anyone hoping for witty -- there's no witty today.

Last Friday I found out Madeleine L'Engle died. I realize that it may seem odd to some, but for me, it was like losing a favorite grandparent. She was, and is, instrumental in my life. Even so, I have been surprised at the degree of grief I have experienced. Even now, a week later, if I think too much about it I find myself welling up, and as we have all experienced, grief magnifies and intensifies the normal hardships of life until the mundane becomes overwhelming.

Sounds bothered me a lot more than usual this week. Everything seemed so much louder than normal, and students yelling to one another in the hallway, usually just an annoyance, became a irritant beyond reason. A trash can being pushed down a hallway behind me made me want to cover my ears. Whispers during a class assignment made me irrationally angry, and even normal conversation level was difficult to maintain. High school is a noisy place, and when the smallest sounds feel like needles in your soul, it is very nearly an impossible place.

On Tuesday I was observed, and on Wednesday I taught an inservice for new teachers. Even though both went well, I even got what I would consider rave reviews, both events made my stress level for the week much higher than normal. I have a terrible time facing judgement.

I haven't been sleeping; I try, but mostly I just lie there and contemplate the ceiling fan. It's hard to resist the urge to turn the light on and read - if I am awake anyway, I might as well, right? I try and resist, if I stay up reading I certainly won't sleep, but the temptation is always there, and the effects of all those insomniac nights are increasing. My students laugh when I forget how to say a word or lose my train of thought again and again, and I play it off as ditziness, but it scares me to feel my mind slipping like that. As the sleep deprivation continues, the effects pile one upon another, growing exponentially.

My week is almost over -- 2 1/2 more classes, a rehearsal, and then I can let go...hopefully I can get some sleep, cry a little, and next week life can return to normal.

The greatest woman I never knew.

I’ve never met her. I never shook her hand, and I’ve never heard her voice.

She’ll never know she changed my life.

I don’t remember when I first entered her world. Was I nine? Or seven? I never remember being without her. As I grew, that world did too. She taught me to ride on a unicorn and how love can make a mitochondrion live. How love makes everything live, even Mr. Jenkins. Because of her, I can try to see the Beezee inside the Mrs. O’Keefe, no matter how many of her I meet. She taught me to watch for the might-have-beens and that everything I do, no matter how trivial, matters all the way to the stars. She showed me how the light can heal and how ancient prayers could ward off the dark.

When I reached that place where I could no longer believe in the god of my childhood, she gave me a God I could love, and from her I learned that it was OK to be angry at Him. She made Mary real and showed me how to continue to live after unforgivable hurt; even to forgive that unforgivable hurt.

In a past full of darkness, when I was all replete with very me, she showed me light, like a lighthouse beacon in a hurricane, helping me understand that past the wind and rocks, somewhere, there was hope, like a fixed star or a rock to lie on to watch those stars. How I could empty all myself of self.

I never met her. She might be the most important person I’ll never meet.

Goodbye Madeleine. We’ll miss you.

The fear has passed.

Well, sort of.

The revisions are done for the most part, and we start rehearsals tomorrow. This guy gave me permission to use any of his music I want to, which is a huge weight off my mind.

Tomorrow I have to assign roles to my cast, but hopefully the tears will be minimal.

I really, really appreciate all the support I have received on this. Lots of people have read it, and given me great feedback, and everyone I have told has been really excited for me. Thank you all so much!

I really should be writing right now.

Well, I guess technically this is writing, but I should not be writing on a blog, I should be working on the play.

This is a problem.

It’s not done. It’s cast, but not finished. I suppose I could call it finished, in a sense; in the sense that all the scenes are written in some form, but, in another sense….

It’s not done.

Every time I read it, I find more stuff that needs to change. The problem is, I don’t really know what it needs to change into.

There is also the small problem of the utter terror that fills me every time I think about the play. I can’t stop wondering if I have made a huge mistake, that I am doing a tremendous disservice to the kids, and that I will get laughed out of the festival. I'm glad no one told me about the fear stage.

In the “stuff that rocks” column, the kids love the play, absolutely love it.

I guess maybe that matters more than the other stuff.


Maybe.

90 minutes.

Auditions today. Lots of fun kids, a little king frog to warm up, and then we started running scenes.

My scenes.

It wasn't really real before today -- I knew I had written a play, obviously, but it felt imaginary somehow; a play is not a play until it's characters come to life, borrowing breath from actors who read their lines and step into another life.

Amazing.

Leaving Every Child Behind

He is exceptionally smart. He’s funny, and popular, and he can rebuild an engine in a matter of hours. He plays golf, and won contests every year of high school for the furniture he built in his wood shop class.

It’s a shame he will never graduate from high school.

HE is one of the many victims of a bill designed, ostensibly, to improve education. Naming a law No Child Left Behind implies the very best of intentions. Of course we should not leave children behind. All children are created equal, and every child deserves the opportunity for a quality education. The problem is not in these noble concepts themselves; the problem is with their interpretation. The intent has been lost in the implementation.

Equality is a matter of value, not characteristic. As anyone who has read A Wrinkle in Time can tell you, LIKE and EQUAL are not the same. All children are created equally valuable, with equal rights and responsibilities. Therein lies the fundamental problem with NCLB – it assumes all children have to same interest’s the same abilities, and the same needs. Fortunately, not all children are alike, but by ignoring that basic fact the proponents of NCLB are doing an inexcusable disservice to the very children they intend to protect, along with thousands of teachers, administrators, and parents who have to somehow find a way to push children through an educational system that has suddenly become intractable, where children who fail to fit the mold are inexorably and tragically left behind.

All children are valuable, and all children deserve an education. By destroying the ability of educators to respond to the inherent differences in children, NCLB is slowly denying more and more children that right.

He could have told you that.

Gone

After the tears are dry
and the calm
the breath
return

After the storm
emotions held in check
smiles and promises
equal parts
hesitation
and anticipation

After the goodbye


This death
with love
unfailing
gives birth to beauty
unspeakable.

Happy.

It's odd. Tonight I had a house full of people. I can remember a time in my life when that idea would have filled me with an unholy terror, and the reality was unthinkable. I remember a time when I would have been crazed thinking about how they must be judging my house, and my things, and me. I remember a time when I would never have worn the tank top and cargo pants I wore tonight, and when I would have had a fit over the fact that I did not have time to do my hair, or that I did not have makeup on to my satisfaction. I remember a time when not getting the frosting made for my cake would have been sufficient to send me into a dark depression that would have lasted for days and ruined the party I had been so excited about, and then I would have spent weeks in self-flagellation over not throwing the perfect party AND being so upset about it. Flagellation for flagellating.

None of those things happened.

The party wasn't perfect. My hair wasn't done, and when the first guest showed up it wasn't even dry. Several major items on the "to do before the party" list didn't get done. There was no frosting on the cake.

But there was no stress. I had fun. I wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. There is no dark depression, and the self-flagellation seems to be on permanent hold.

I think I am happy.

Amazing.

No depth whatsoever.

I am turning 31 tomorrow - right now I should be writing a post reflecting on the past year, what i have learned, etc, etc, etc. I will, I promise. But not now.

tomorrow night everyone I know is coming over for a birthday party, and at the moment my house is a mess, the grass needs to be mowed, and I haven't made the cake yet. Yet here I sit, watching the finale of So You Think You Can Dance, and not stressing out about it. As long as the drinks get cold, everything else will fall into place, right?

Melpomene and Thalia, take me away.

The ancient Greeks imagined a group of goddesses, the muses, whose realm was art -- they inspired the artist, the composer, the poet, and the writer. Artists throughout history have spoken of the feeling that their art was speaking through them, as if an outside force used their body, or words, or voice to birth something beyond the realm of average humdrum existence.

Art can take us beyond ourselves, or make us think in ways we never imagined, or move us to change ourselves. It holds the power to make us angry, or unspeakably sad, or beyond joyful.

Art is a hard, demanding taskmaster. There is no mercy when one is in the grasp of the muses. When the urge to create arises, everything else falls away – dirty dishes are forgotten, the television is turned off, and the creative pours forth.

I understand the Greeks a little more today. I understand the possession, and the obsession, that comes inextricable with inspiration. I understand, just a little, Michelangelo beholding a piece of marble and seeing within the image of David or the Pieta. I understand, a tiny bit, the passion that created Starry Night and Handel’s Messiah.

My mother arrives in town tomorrow to see my new house and celebrate my birthday. My house is in shambles from the past few days’ unpacking efforts, the trash is full, and the sink is overflowing. And yet, I sit here and write, because I must. The muses have taken possession of my soul, and until they release me, I must obey.

I am beyond all men most blessed.

I'm a big blockhead

As in, writer's block.

I have been pondering it for a while, and desperation has finally driven me to it.

I am writing a one-act play.

I've been trying most of the summer to pick a play for this year's competition, and I have not yet found anything I like. So, as I was mulling my failure as a play-finder in the shower earlier this week, an idea came to me, fully formed, and (hopefully) reasonably appealing and profound. Now I just have to get it on paper...or computer, as the case may be.

I'm nuts.

I'm not the only nerd in the family.

That's my nephew. Dressed as Harry Potter for an event celebrating the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. And the chick holding him---that's my sister, the one who drew the scar and tied the glasses on. Clearly the nerdiness is a familial trait. The kid has no chance. Good thing he's cute.

Can't stop the beat!

I'm a nerd. Such a nerd, in fact, that I have ordered a vanity license plate that says NERD GRL and I will drive it around with pride. I'm a science teacher who does theatre and records Star Trek: The Next Generation every day. I'm the nerd other nerds are ashamed of.

Nothing brings out the nerd in me quite like a good show tune.

Yesterday my friend Kelly and I went out to lunch and to see Hairspray. I've always been a fan of the original movie, so I was a little hesitant about the new one. There was no need for my hesitation -- the movie was incredible. I was enthralled the whole time, the music was amazing, and as soon as I came home I bought the soundtrack from iTunes. There are at least three songs I will begin learning immediately, on the off chance I have some opportunity to perform them someday. It makes me sad that I will never get to play Motormouth Maybelle, since she has one of the best songs in musical history. In my humble opinion, of course.

The best part of the day, though, wasn't the movie -- it was the company. Kelly and I hardly get to see each other, thanks to my insane schedule, so it was awesome to have several uninterrupted hours together. I may be a nerd, but I am very thankful for my friends who are infinitely cooler than me.

One is silver and the other gold.

When I met her, I had been 18 for about 24 hours. It surprises me that I don't remember the precise moment of our introduction, but in my defense, that day had been crazy; last minute packing, a two hour drive, hours waiting in a registration line, my parents fighting while I cried, and hauling boxes and suitcases into a tiny room, wondering where on earth I was going to fit the contents of those boxes.

She had curly hair halfway down her back, and luminous skin, crooked teeth, and parents who seemed so much nicer than mine. She taped pictures of a boy doing tricks on a bike on the wall, and she had a mickey mouse bedspread and posters. She already knew the other two girls sharing our room (yes, four girls in a room) and she had a brother who already had a year of college under his belt. I envied her confidence. She did not have a lot of stuff, and, as I would learn later, not a lot of money either, but that never seemed to be an impediment.

It was a hard year. I was not an easy person to love, and we were all so young, trying desperately to figure out who we were and where we fit. Somehow we all managed to survive, and we had lots of fun along the way, along with some moments that were not so much fun.

It is an odd practice, this matching of people at random to live together for so long.

There have been ten other roommates since that day. Nine of those ten have vanished into history. It is remarkable that of all the women who have shared my space, she has persisted in my life.

Last night I sat in my living room, amazed at how she has not changed. I watched her daughter climb in the playland at Chik-Fil-A, smiling and waving to us below, and I held her daughter's little hand in line for ice cream. I looked at photographs of her beautiful son who graced this world for only a few hours, his tiny body cradled in her arms, fighting for life. I sat in her van and listened to her talk about her grief, and how much she wants her son's short life, and her own pain, to mean something. We talked about old times, and the people we both knew, and the unresolved conflicts that had happened so long ago. We healed old hurts, and in the end, nothing mattered but the love that still holds strong between us, twelve years after that day we met.

There is a Girl Scout song whose lyrics tell us to Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. The song is right. This woman, randomly chosen to share my room, who became so much a part of my life, is truly gold.

I'm not dead, I promise

Just haven't been feeling bloggy lately. I'll return sometime soon, I promise.

The real enemy

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about misogyny, and feminism, and beauty, and fashion, and fat. Not necessarily in that order. I have a lot of thoughts. This may be a series.

I subscribe to Entertainment Weekly. Kind of ironic, considering I watch very little recent TV (my DVR is full of Star Trek: The Next Generation and Saved by the Bell) and rarely go to movies, but for some reason I am fascinated by it and read every issue cover to cover.

I was reading the most recent issue yesterday when something caught my attention. There was story about a movie where women were running in heels and the actor being interviewed made a comment about how hard it was for the women to keep up with the men. My thought – why should they have to?

Look at any category of fashion, and you will very quickly realize that fashion is much, much harder on women than men, and that women are much more objectified than men by clothing. Consider formal wear. Men wear suits or tuxedos. They are covered head to toe, and their shoes are comfortable. Women wear skimpy dresses that by design impede movement, not to mention breathing, and shoes that are not only uncomfortable, they are difficult to walk in (let alone run) and can actually do damage to the wearer’s feet over time.

Or consider swimwear. Men’s swimsuits are usually baggy shorts that come to the knee. Women’s swimsuits, even modest ones, are ridiculously tight and show the wearer’s entire body, with nothing left to the imagination except perhaps nipple color. Women’s swimwear is clearly not designed for swimming, it is designed to show off bodies, once again objectifying women.

Even casual clothes betray the inequity – men’s shorts are very rarely shorter than an inch or two above the knee and are normally baggy, women’s shorts run the gamut from just below the butt to knee length, but even the knee length ones are clingy.

It would be easy to blame the fashion industry, but they aren’t the real culprits. It is an industry, and like all industries, it follows the money. Women’s clothes are what they are because women keep buying them, and criticizing anyone who doesn’t follow the rules. Which brings me to my central thesis.

The central problem facing women is not men anymore. At some points in our history, men were the issue. It was men who repressed women. But now women are repressing themselves. We burned our bras and replaced them with studded bustiers, and we have no one to blame but ourselves.

The Hypocrite Within

For as long as I can remember, self-hatred has been a part of my life.

I can remember, as a child, wanting a white tank top. My mother used that white tank top as a bribe -- if I lost ten pounds, I could have the tank top. When I was a teenager, I wanted to go to a formal dance, and my mother bought me a dress -- two sizes too small. If I could lose enough to wear the dress, I could go. I didn't. The next year, she bought me a dress in my size, but it would only look good on me if I lost weight, so for the two months before the dance, she harassed me about every bite I put in my mouth. I went to the dance, and wore the dress, but spent a good portion of the evening wondering if I really was as ugly as my mother seemed to think I was. (You might wonder why I was not picking out my own dresses, but that its another dysfunction for another time.)

I could tell hundreds more stories in the “lose weight, lose weight, lose weight” genre; all the diets, the crazy exercise regimes, the supplements and drugs and roller-coaster addiction of the diet cycle; but I don’t need to – they are the same stories told by nearly every fat woman who lives in American culture. I could also tell stories about all the ways I have been convinced my life would be better if only I were thin. I was sure life would be easier, I would have lots of friends, men would love me, and, most of all, I could finally, FINALLY stop hating myself.

The truth is, even if I had been thin, I probably would have continued to hate myself. It is remarkable how we can always find something to hate about ourselves.

I don’t hate myself anymore. Thanks to lots of people and events, I have been able to put that behind me. But it is remarkable that in spite of learning to accept (dare I say, even like) my body, I still fight contrary thoughts and voices every day. I put on clothes and think how much better they would look if I could just lose 5/10/100 pounds. I have a lonely moment and think that I would have a boyfriend or husband if only I were thin. I am even tempted by the commercials for Alli, uncontrollable oily diarrhea notwithstanding. It is hard to shake the eternal “if only” thoughts that have been my constant companions for so long, particularly when the people around me are still in the grip of fat fear.

A few weeks ago I donated both of those dresses to the costume closet in my drama department, and had a good laugh at them with some of my kids. Hopefully someday I will be able to purge those thoughts as well.

The lunacy, it is funny, no?

I was reading over at Shakesville (which is back up despite the hatahs, yay!) and followed a link in a Kate Harding post to this Obesity Risk Calculator. After answering all the questions, it told me that based on my lifestyle, I have a 0-20% chance of being overweight. I wonder how they would calculate the probability of me weighing in at almost 300 pounds. Since, y'know, fat is is all based on lifestyle.

Once I stopped laughing...I started laughing again, this time at all the people who are so brainwashed into the whole calories-in calories-out nonsense. All the people who say things like "the best exercise is pushing yourself back from the table", and all the people who judge us as somehow inferior because they are so convinced that we have no willpower or self-control.

If calories-in-calories-out worked, I would look like one of the kids from 90210.

Better laugh than cry, right?