A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

In other news, I continue to be a medical marvel.  I'm waiting to give birth at this very moment.  Give birth to a kidney stone, apparently.  I also have a kidney infection.  Want to know the best part?  I have no clue why this happened.

Is there a family history of kidney stones?  NO.



Do I drink anything other than water, besides the occasional glass of wine?  NO.



Do I eat rhubarb, sweet potato, beets, spinach, swiss chard, wheat germ, soybean crackers, okra, black tea, or beets?  NO.



Do I eat peanuts or chocolate?  Sometimes, but not regularly!



Do I eat grits, grapes, raspberries, fruitcakes, strawberries, marmalade, or liver?  NO.



Do I drink or eat a lot of dairy?  NO.



Do I drink any beverages that are dark?  NO.



Do I eat a lot of meat?  NO.


I continue to amaze myself with the stunts my body will now pull since I am apparently in the geriatric category.  You know, my life was just FINE and DANDY until I turned 30, and then my body went to total crap! 

Thanks to this latest development, I was "fortunate" enough to be one of the first patients to use the internal ultrasound in the doctor's new office unit.  Which means they were unaware that the GIANT framed picture they had placed across from the table just happened to reflect what was...happening...on the table.  The only thing more gross than the internal ultrasound is watching yourself experiencing the internal ultrasound.  I have been told they have corrected this situation since my visit.  (I also have a very, very, very crass nickname for the internal ultrasound, but a good Christian girl shouldn't say such things!)

So, I feel like an expectant mother, pacing the floor, going for walks, and trying to get through the discomfort.  Thankfully I have Devil Dog to pull me along on walks.  I'm sure the faster I walk, the sooner the thing will come on out.  I thought earlier that I was in transition because I had a great deal of pain and nausea.  I wanted to shout "CROWNING!" but no one was here, so no one would get the joke.  Besides, it turned out to be just a false alarm.  The Braxton-Hicks of the kidney world.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go drink my 45,000th glass of water for the day.

Single Woman Saturday

Sitting alone on a Saturday night, wishing you had a date?  Follow this handy tip for making yourself more appealing to the opposite sex!

Rebel Friday Fail

I carpool with a friend of mine.  She's very funny, and you just never know what to expect when you ride with her.  A cup full of tiny shovels from Orange Leaf?  Got it!  A restroom stop at a fireworks warehouse?  Done it!  Listened to a lot of Glee songs?  Yep.

She is a lot of fun, and since we have to leave at the butt-crack of dawn for our long commute, it makes those early mornings a lot more bearable.

This past week, we had to stay at school late for a night event.  After we left, I suggested that we could go to work later in the morning so we could sleep in a little bit late.  If we made it to work on time, and liked it, we could do this weekly and call it "Rebel Friday."  I even declared that I was not going to wear an official school shirt (as is a requirement on Fridays in my school).

I didn't think it through, though.  You see, I'm not a rebel.  Not by a long shot.  I am neurotic.  If I'm on time to an event, I feel like I am late.  I have to be early to things.  So, by getting to work at the exact time I am supposed to be there, I feel like a failure.

We left, marveling at how weird it was to leave when it was light outside, and how there was quite a bit more traffic than normal.  We were perky and well rested.

Thirty minutes later, I was feeling very anxious.  I kept watching the clock.  I kept accelerating more and more.  Finally, I admitted to my friend that I was feeling stressed about leaving so late.  She admitted that she was feeling the same way, and couldn't stop watching the clock.

85 MPH later, I was praying that I wouldn't get caught by a cop.  We made it to work in excellent time, and all was well.  But the fun was sucked right out of "Rebel Friday."  This is why I never did any majorly rebellious behaviors as a teen - I just couldn't do it!  I couldn't handle it!

I'm going to rename it "Fuddy Duddy Friday."

Private Eyes...They're Watching You!

Here is some background music for you to listen to as you read this blog entry:


There are a few things they neglect to tell you when you go to college to be a teacher:

1.  You will never urinate on a normal schedule again.  You'll be expected to hold it allllll daayyyy longggg.  Then, when you are not at work and dreaming of wearing a diaper, your bladder will continually scream at you "You can go to the bathroom!  Go!  Go!  Every 15 minutes!  Go!"

2.  You'll have to stand outdoors, dressed professionally.  Nothing puts a damper on a cute, expensive, professional outfit than standing on a boiling hot playground with sweat rolling down your back.  Also, if you're half albino like me and have to wear a hat every day, it really messes up your hair.

3.  You will never have privacy again.  Seriously.

When I was a kid, I had a teacher that I absolutely adored.  I will call her Super Teacher.  The idea that she was a real person was mind boggling.  Then, she got pregnant!  Then, she invited me to her church to watch her baby get dedicated.  I was on Cloud 9 with joy!  THEN, we started going to her church so I got to see Super Teacher all the time.  The best part was that I even got to go to her house and hold her baby.

I'm sure we all can recall moments where teachers did nice things for us, or we realized that they didn't live in the classroom.  Just a smile at the top of your paper, or a star, meant sheer bliss!

I became a teacher and was determined to make connections with my students just like Super Teacher did.  Naively, I gave my students my home address and phone number.  The address thing was good - who doesn't love to get mail?  The phone number?  BAD IDEA.  Kids would call me non-stop.  Little Davy must have called me 4,000 times.  He wanted to just hang out with me on the phone.

Later, I got Caller ID and stopped giving out my phone number.  This didn't stop parents from calling me, even when I was unlisted.  Parents will call you at home at night.  You'd think it would be for something important.  But most of the calls I got at home would be things like "Sadie lost a form that you sent her, can she have another one?"  And if you don't answer, they call over...and over...and over.

So, I stopped answering if they were parents or students.  Email came along and really revolutionized things.  People called less and emailed more.  This was a good solution for me.

But then, there's the whole privacy thing outside of phone lines.  What about the time that I had three students literally run after the car when I got in a car to go on a date, yelling "Ms. Non-Mommy, is that your boyfriend?"  Or the time on a date with another man when we entered a movie theater full of children I knew.  They all yelled hello at me, and kept turning around to look at us.

At church, parents come to talk to you about their child's grade card.  Or they'll want to pump you for information about another student's parents' divorce.

I used to have a child that would comment about my home constantly.  He'd say things like "I noticed that your TV was on late last night, what were you watching?"  "There was a red truck at your house, who was there?"  "Ms. Non-Mommy, did you know that your garage was open late last night?"

I've perfected the art of sneakily entering the wine section at the local grocery store, peeking around the corner to see if any kids were nearby, and then running to save my life.  I'm sure the security team at the store laughs at me every time.

The best part is when your students live near you.  They ring the doorbell constantly.  They play in your yard.  They look in the window.  They wave at you as you walk by your living room window.  They watch you mow the lawn and yell at you over the sound of the mower, even though you are clearly wearing an iPod.

But hey, at least if I were to ever go missing, I'd have tons of eyes watching my every move.  They'll tell the police where to find me!

Technology is awesome

Right now, one of my closest friends is in labor.  She's texting me a whole lot, which means that things aren't really rolling too much.  I wanted to take a nap, but I'm too excited!

You know, as the only single woman on the planet, with eggs that are rapidly approaching geriatric status, you'd think I'd be used to this.  All of my friends have babies.  All of them.  And yet, each time they go into labor I'm ridiculously excited and a nervous wreck.  I want to be there!  I worry about if they are in pain or not.  And yes, part of me just wants to get my hands on that kid.

As an aside, I'd just like to say that I want to see someone give birth.  I know it's gross, but I don't care.  I just want to see a live birth!  No one ever takes me up on it, not even my sister.  My cousin would probably let me, but she lives a million miles away and has no plans for a Non-Mommy, Jr. either.  I am screwed.

Anyway, soon I will get to snuggle with a new baby.  They don't do much, but there isn't much better than holding a warm bundle of new goodness.

(Please note the restraint I have shown in not complaining about it never being my turn!  Also, if you know any single men, please leave me their pertinent contact information.