I see things, and I wonder.
If it’s such a highly-evolved fish sandwich, maybe we shouldn’t eat it.
I see things, and I wonder.
If it’s such a highly-evolved fish sandwich, maybe we shouldn’t eat it.
I am a good person. Generally. I try to be, anyway. But I am not perfect. Sometimes I fall short.
I love my husband. We’ve been married for twenty years. That’s more than half my life. Wait. Is it? How old am I? Hang on while I do the math. Carry the two, divide by the ratio of the moon’s circumference to its diameter… Okay, no. Not half my life, but close enough. Long time. Long enough that I am shocked at how close I came to betraying him.
It was so frighteningly easy to justify, too.
I wrestled these demons for an entire day, and I am proud to say I emerged victorious and true. I didn’t do it. I didn’t. I resisted the temptation. I did not see Star Wars: The Force Awakens without him. But I might have eaten his Junior Mints while he was gone. Keep that between us, would you?
*** He would totally know. The man can sense The Force from twenty paces. He’s like Yoda.
Just to clarify, 2016 is a year, not a quantity. It’s not that long a post, cross my heart.
2015 was a good year. A fine year. It was okay. I’m sure it did its best. 2016, though, wow. It sits on the horizon like a shiny new boyfriend, dangling its baubles of possibility. It hasn’t yet left its underwear on the floor, eaten my stash of MoonPies, or stolen my car. There’s still that tiny chance that it will be perfect, The One. Heck, it’s so special it’s even got an extra day. I plan to spend that bonus day like found money, friends. It’s already burning a hole in my pocket.
I made some wishes to start the New Year out right. In a new relationship, it’s important to say exactly what you want, you know. So here goes.
What are your wishes for 2016? If you did a New Years Post, link it in the comments. I’d love to read it!
There’s a whole lot of grateful going on out there on the interwebs. I just happened to catch the wave of it when Dawn over at Tales FromThe Motherland started a whole gratitude blog party. The gist is simple. Write down as many things I am grateful for as I can in 10 minutes. I had to start this a couple of times. First time around, I came up with “sticks,” and “trees.” Because apparently there was too much pressure, or I am a squirrel. So I tried it again. None of it is in any particular order
Stuff I’m grateful for:
My computer. It takes me places.
My husband. We were meant for each other. At a recent Christmas party white elephant exchange, a gift was opened, our eyes locked, and we both knew without speaking that we had to have it. When it was my turn, I took it for our own. We high-fived. It is beautiful.
The Girl-child. She is home for the holidays, and without getting all maudlin, I’ll just say that I forget how helpful and funny she is. It’s good to be a family of five again.
The Padawan. He’s a funny one, and he always makes me laugh.
Squish. He made me late for work. Because he needed to put on a fresh roll of toilet paper. I have passed on the sacred knowledge.
Gas range. Which I guess officially makes me a boring grown-up. I’m okay with that. It cuts cooking time in half sometimes.
Tech savvocity I never used to think of myself as tech savvy, but I am now. I can hate on Windows 10, not because I am afraid of new things, but because it has actually given up functionality.
New things that hatch. Images are borrowed mostly from previous posts, which is why the captions are weird, but I’m almost out of room for photo storage here. Click to enlarge.
My job. I love going to work every day. Who wouldn’t?
My camera. I take thousands of photos every year. I love to catalog stuff.
The blogosphere. Referring specifically to the wonderful people that have come into my life because of blogging, in person sometimes.
Pesky cats. I don’t have words for the weird little fuzzy things that share my space. Pixel is such a kids’ cat. She hears a crash and is off to see how she can help stir things up further. Loki is her spirit-deity.
Maturity My new computer has something wrong with the display, and I had some things stolen from the mailbox at Christmas. But it’s just one of those things, a series of inconveniences, not tragedies like they might have been two years ago.
Grocery shopping Don’t get me wrong. I hate grocery shopping because it’s a chore, but it is also a privilege not everyone has.
Holidays. Family fun time is the best time.
Humor. I like to laugh. I NEED to laugh. I discovered The Bloggess this year. I approve. She even retweeted some of my tweets in her awkward fest a few weeks ago.
Good books. There is nothing better than losing myself in a good book. What’s the best book you read in 2015? My e-reader is hungry.
Writing. If I don’t like the world I am living in, I can write myself a new one. I need to do that more.
My friends. They keep me grounded AND encouraged.
Music Trite, but true. Sometimes somebody else sings the songs of my heart. This year I discovered Poets of the Fall.
Free books My used bookstore has a free bin out front. I find all kinds of treasures in it, like a hardcover Lord of the Rings. Also? Kobo store has some free gems now and again.
E-readers. I got a new one for Christmas – shiny, back-lit, glorious. I love tree books, but e-readers mean that when my sad hands get all crampy and useless, I can still read.
Getting rid of crap. After Christmas, I try to get rid of at least as much stuff as I brought into the house. I aim for more this year.
My faith. It pulls me through hard times.
My blood family. They’re weird and funny and nutty and wonderful.
My church family. See above. Family is family.
Iwako Erasers. If anyone wants to send me a bag of fifty, I’ll give them a good home.
Harry Potter. This book series has brought much joy into my life and some incredible people. It is made of magic.
SPP. The best little online game that you’ve probably never heard of. I met wonderful people there, some of whom are sisters from other mothers IRL.Also, the first time I had to come to terms with the fact that nothing lasts forever.
My school. I can be in the worst mood ever, but the moment I walk in, I feel the love and joy. My school feeds my soul.
Toys. I like fun. I am naturally attracted to toys.
Lego sets This morning, Squish spent several hours putting together his Mystery Machine Lego set. So I got to sleep in and then READ.
My Chemex. I’m not a hipster, but I do appreciate good coffee. I can’t go back to auto-drip now that I’ve used a Chemex.
Old dogs that can learn new tricks, like how to use a Chemex.
Storage containers As a kid, I dreamed about what Santa would bring me for Christmas. As an adult, I dream about putting it all in clear plastic boxes.
When my kids read my blog and laugh.
Being a recommended humor blog. I think that ship has sailed, but I was on WordPress’s nice list for a nice, long stint.
The ability to like what I like without caring what anyone else thinks. This ability was a long time in coming, but better late than never.
Wool socks If it ever bothers to get cold again. It’s just after Christmas, and it’s over 70 degrees.
Family photos, especially the ones that hold family secrets. We have a hundred years’ worth of photos, and they are priceless.
Good customer service. The champs this year – Lego Store, Chuck E. Cheese, JCPenney, Mostafa at Hewlett-Packard, and Shutterfly.
New editing tools on WordPress. And also the ability to write in the old admin format. The new one is too minimalist for these eyes to read. So thanks for looking out for us old-timers, WordPress.
Punctuation. I know it doesn’t seem like it from looking at my list, but WordPress wouldn’t play nice with punctuation and formatting today.
There are forty-something on here, I think. The numbered bullets went all nutty when I added images, so I removed them. Too much to do tonight to spend longer than twenty minutes wrestling with the formatting. Want to join us? I hope you do!
Instructions, copied and pasted from Dawn’s blog:
If you’d like to join in, here’s how it works: set a timer for 10 minutes; timing this is critical. Once you start the timer, start your list (the timer doesn’t matter for filling in the instructions, intro, etc). The goal is to write 50 things that made you happy in 2015, or 50 thing that you feel grateful for. The idea is to not think too hard; write what comes to mind in the time allotted. When the timer’s done, stop writing. If you haven’t written 50 things, that’s ok. If you have more than 50 things and still have time, keep writing; you can’t feel too happy or too grateful! When I finished my list, I took a few extra minutes to add links and photos.
To join us for this project: 1) Write your post and publish it (please copy and paste the instructions from this post, into yours) 2) Click on the blue frog at the very bottom of this post. 3) That will take you to another window, where you can past the URL to your post. 4) Follow the prompts, and your post will be added to the Blog Party List. Please note: the InLinkz will expire on January 15, 2015. After that date, no blogs can be added.
It hurt a little when I fell off the face of the earth, I’m not gonna lie. I face-planted somewhere around Jupiter. Or was it Venus? All I know is it was cold, and I got rocks in my teeth. Come to think of it, it might have been the playground.
It happens every November without fail. I get sucked into National Novel Writing Month, and the rest of my life gets to go hang for a little while. I’m not apologizing, mostly because I’ve been around the blogging block long enough to realize I’m the only one who suffers if I don’t blog. But also because this November was made of magic. Magic. I can’t apologize for magic.
I sign up for NaNo every year. My first year, I stumbled upon it the day before, and I jumped in with both feet. I love it. I get caught up in the madness, the late nights, the caffeine-addled reckless abandon that helps me pound out a delightfully awful first draft. This year, I met some milestones.
NaNo is a program that offers several opportunities a year to produce a novel in a month. In November, the *official* month, the goal is 50,000 words. I hit that goal in 8 days, a personal best. I ended the month at 106K, another personal best for a work of straight fiction. I didn’t find “The End” for another few days after NaNo ended, but I found it last night. I typed those words in giant, bold letters, 30 point type. A third personal best. Usually I’m hiking the Cliffs of Insanity in February in a desperate hunt for the elusive “The End,” but I nailed it down before Squish’s birthday.
This November was a gift, wrapped up in scratch-and-sniff Strawberry Shortcake paper and tied up with a bow. Here are some of my favorite things about it.
These are all great things, of course. But I’m holding out on you. There’s no way a single blog post can contain all of this November’s allotment of awesome. I have more things to share, and one of them is even better than winning NaNo. Way better. Immeasurably better.
Until next time.
Did you participate in NaNoWrimo this year? How did it go?
I see weird things. When you work in a zoo or have kids, weird becomes a way of life.
Chameleons who have outgrown the tiny branches scrunches down like baby Huey so it’ll fit? Nah, that’s normal.
Memorial auto decals?
Yes, weird. I haven’t changed my mind. But not the weirdest. I just saw something that took the taco when it comes to the inexplicable.
I was walking in a park I’ve visited a dozen times or more, and tonight for the first time, I noticed this. Click to enlarge. It’s still a terrible picture, but you can see it better.
Need a closeup? Brace yourself.
I walked around this… I don’t know what to call it. Statue? Obelisk? Travesty? I’ll go with that one… and I walked around it some more. I thought I was tired, or maybe someone had slipped some drugs in my Fiber One snack cake. (Shut up. They’re tasty, and who doesn’t like to poop?) But no. It’s a head mounted on a post.
A nice plaque rests right in front identifying the disembodied head as that of a former mayor. Questions. I have questions.
I know bronze work is expensive, but maybe save some money and plant a nice tulip garden instead? Just a suggestion.
What weird things have you seen this week?
Today I’m going to tell you a story. Because Alice asked me to, and it’s her birthday. Happy birthday, Alice! You don’t know her? Oh, you should! She’s funny and so, so smart. I love her posts. Sometimes her posts make me laugh, sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes it’s both. Read her. You just might love her.
I’ve gone back and forth about which story to tell. Fiction? Not fiction? Embellished not-fiction? I want to come up with a good one. For the last week, my internal dialog has gone something like this:
There was the time that… no, that’s no good.
How about… nope. Funny only to me.
I’ve got it! Yes! Um, are you kidding me? You can’t admit to that in a public setting.
So here you go.
Sharon slid the box across the counter. It didn’t look like much. About eighteen inches square, it had been white at one time, but trotting the globe had acquired a layer of grime. One corner was dinged, and the shipping label had begun to peel, but the packing tape held fast. That bit was all that mattered to Sharon.
“Here,” she said with a furtive glance at the ceiling. “Better hurry. Dad’ll be down in a minute.”
Thad’s eyes glowed. He pulled the box to himself and began to dig at the packing tape with his thumbnail.
“Don’t open it here!” Sharon hissed, terror in her eyes. She flung an arm toward the door. “GO!” she cried. “And don’t tell Dad!”
Thad dropped a pile of cash on the counter without bothering to count it and gathered his precious box gently, mindful of its delicate cargo. Balancing the box on his arm, he was gone with the jingling of the shop door.
Sharon watched him go, not daring to breathe until she heard him climb the stone steps to street level and saw his feet pass by the basement window. She turned to the new girl.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she whispered hoarsely. “Dad will kill me if he finds out.”
The new girl said nothing. She simply wondered. Then she turned back to sorting the shipment of live fish that had just been delivered to the little basement shop.
“Okay,” Sharon said, collecting herself. “Let’s see what we have here.” She lifted a gallon-sized bag teeming with tiny, colorful fish. “Guppies,” she announced. “We’ll put those in one of the 20-longs in the back.”
The new girl did as she was told. She collected the bag of fish from Sharon. It was surprisingly heavy, but she did not drop it. She upended it gently, pouring fish and water carefully into a waiting bucket. She shook out the corners of the bag to dislodge any remaining fish and then discarded it and dropped an air hose into the bucket.
Shipment days were the best days, every available surface in the tiny shop stacked with cardboard boxes and Styrofoam coolers. She liked sorting it all out, seeing order come from the chaos, but mostly, she liked the new fish. Shipments from Florida were the best. Not only did they require a trip to the airport to collect, but they contained the greatest surprises.
In the mid-1980s, few fish species beyond basic livebearers and a few cichlids were regularly bred in captivity. It was easier, and usually cheaper, to import animals freshly caught from the wilds of Africa and the Amazon. Sometimes, swimming right alongside the common side-sucking plecostamus they had ordered, she would find something weird.
When one of these tiny mysteries appeared, she snagged it, put it in a catch box and ran for the books. Sometimes even after studying Axelrod and Practical Fishkeeping, she came up short. It was her first introduction to the enormity of the world and its diversity. She could barely comprehend she was holding a creature that Herbert Axelrod, that demigod of fish keeping, had never even seen. On those occasions, she put down her money and carted her new treasure home. Sometimes it died. More often, she kept i a few months until she grew bored with it and returned it for something newer and more exciting.
So many weird and interesting things came into the shop unexpectedly that it never occurred to her to ask Sharon to special-order things for her. It did, however, occur to Thad.
“You can order it! It’s right here on their inventory list,” he’d said, thumping his index finger on the paper for emphasis. Sharon looked at him doubtfully.
“I don’t know,” she answered, frowning. “Dad wouldn’t like it. He said no. He told me, and he told you, and he’d fire us both if he knew.”
“He doesn’t have to know.” The new girl hated his wheedling tone, hated how many girls caved to it, hated that Sharon, who was an adult and supposed to know better, was no exception.
“Alright,” she said. “But you have to pay for it, dead or alive, and Dad can’t know. Dad hates snakes.”
Harry, her father was the owner and namesake of the little aquarium shop. He had started it with just a few aquariums in his basement twenty years previously. The business had grown over the years until he was forced to either quit his full time job or hand over the reins to Sharon, his youngest daughter. He still lived upstairs, but she managed the place on her own. He would likely never see the invoice.
Sharon placed the order against her better judgement. When the shipment arrived, she called Thad immediately, and the transaction went down with neither hitch nor Harry’s knowledge. She thought she was out of the woods, but then the snake, a Haitian Vine Boa, escaped into Thad’s apartment and was gone for good, likely cooked in the heating vents, and he was back on her doorstep begging her to order another. And then another. Today’s shipment was his third.
The new girl worked the following day by herself. Sundays were usually slow and sleepy, and this day was no exception.
She stood at the sink scraping the hard water line from an aquarium with salt and a razor blade. She looked up when she heard the jingle of the door and was surprised to see Thad. He never came around on his days off. It was one of the many things she disapproved of when it came to Thad. She had a list.
She was even more surprised to see him holding a pillowcase, or more correctly, holding something inside a pillowcase. She frowned.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“My new snake,” he said proudly.
“Why is it here?” she asked haughtily, pretending disapproval to mask her terror. She had never seen a living snake up close, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to now.
He laughed, seeing right through her and making her hate him more. “Is Harry home?”
“No,” she said, stuffing down her fear and turning back to attack the hard water line with new zeal.
“Good,” Thad said gleefully. She looked up to find him reaching into the bag.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice an odd point somewhere between a his and a squeal.
“Hang on,” he said, furrowing his brows in concentration. “Relax. It’s a ball python. When they get scared, they roll up in a ball.”
She didn’t answer, her blade squeaking on the aquarium glass like fingernails on a chalkboard.
She didn’t look up until she heard him say “Oh, no.” The snake, a wild-caught, thin specimen about three feet long, had clearly not read the manuals on typical ball python behavior. It showed no inclination whatsoever to roll into a ball but a rather strong desire to bite Thad somewhere in the vicinity of his face. He managed to pin the snake’s head, pressing the animal’s mouth closed with the balls of this thumbs while the snake twined its back end all the way up his arm.
The new girl took a step back, away from crazed snake and handler. She looked over her shoulder to plan the best escape route should Thad drop the snake at the same time the snake dropped him. A thump from above stopped them both in their tracks. Harry was home.
Thad said a word the new girl had only read on bathroom walls. “Help me!” he squeaked, gesturing as if he thought she might actually step forward and assist him in his snake-handling endeavors. His hand was turning purple.
“No way,” she said, shaking her head fiercely. He frowned at her. She frowned back. Another thump and the shuffling footsteps of a knee replacement from above. Harry was coming down to the shop.
Thad said another word unfamiliar to the new girl. She was pretty sure it was German, and totally certain it was bad. He did a little dance on the spot to loosen the coils constricting his arm. By some great miracle, he was able to shake the snake into the pillowcase and tie it off. Thump-thump. Harry descended slowly down the basement steps.
Thad thrust the bag at the new girl. “We have to hide it!”
“Washer?” she suggested?
“What if he’s doing laundry? Closet?”
“He might be getting fish food for upstairs!”
Out of time and optionsThad dropped the bag into the empty display aquarium at the front of the store beside the counter just as Harry rounded the corner and appeared behind the counter, scratching his grizzled head and looking at least as grumpy as the snake.
“Thad?” he said with a frown. Men, it seemed, were immune to Thad’s charm. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I just came by,” Thad squeaked, standing in front of the aquarium to block Harry’s view from the contents.
Harry walked around the counter. Thad took a step back, pressing himself against the aquarium as Harry walked toward him. Thad shot a look at the new girl over Harry’s shoulder, a look of sheer hopelessness. It was all over. Harry was going to find the snake and learn that both Sharon and Thad had disobeyed his orders. Thad would lose his job on the spot.
With the look of a hunted man, Thad darted around the corner and out of Harry’s reach. He could fire Thad, but he’d have to catch him to hit him. And hit he might. Harry hated snakes.
Harry stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel to face the new girl, his back to the aquarium and his expression inscrutable. She thought she might soil herself. Did he think her complicit.
“I thought I made myself clear,” he said sternly. Her knees felt weak. Would he fire her, too? She gulped.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“You’re listening to television.”
“What?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
“The radio,” he barked. “The radio! You’re listening to Judge Wapner. I told you and told you, the radio is for classical. It makes customers spend more money!”
The radio! She felt positively wobbly with relief. He hadn’t seen the snake bag in the aquarium. But she could. She watched in horrified fascination as, behind Harry, the snake bag came to life and slowly rose up the side of the aquarium. Thad had not tied the pillowcase down very far, giving the snake plenty of room to stretch out.
The new girl did not hear a word Harry said, so focused was she on the snake making its slow and careful way up the front of the empty aquarium, impeded only by its pillowcase. Harry, oblivious, continued to chastise her radio choices while the snake bag danced behind him.
The new girl didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed impossible that he did not see the bag contorting and stretching itself… stretching itself to the top of the tank! Oh, dear God! It was going to climb out, pillowcase and all! The snake pushed up on the lid of the aquarium and it rose a fraction of an inch. She stood transfixed, terrified. The snake pressed the lid a little further. Its head, covered by the knot in the pillowcase, was an inch from Harry’s arm. One tiny poke, and Harry would undoubtedly suffer heart attack, aneurysm, or stroke, maybe all three at once. The new girl silently lamented skipping CPR class when she was a Campfire Girl.
The snake, hampered in its exploration, fell on its side with a hollow thud as loud as a gong. Harry didn’t hear it over the radio. He made a few more points, and she nodded her head in blind agreement, eyes fixed on the snake so determined to announce its presence. Finally, he walked over to the radio, changed the station, and heaved himself back upstairs.
As soon as Harry was out of sight, Thad snatched the snake out of the aquarium and beat a hasty retreat himself, leaving the new girl to fall into helpless, hysterical giggles on the counter. Harry never found out about his close encounter of the reptilian kind, but the new girl learned that she never, in fact, hated Thad. Or snakes, and in fact went on to work with reptiles herself 20 years later.
Happy birthday, Alice! Your present will be there later this week. And no, it’s not a snake in a bag.
It’s done. Last week my husband and I packed the car, loaded up the Girl-child, and transported her to her new life at college. Such stress does funny things to your hearing.
On the road:
What I said: “Why don’t I drive?”
What I probably meant: “Take some time to relax. I’ll get us through the worst of the traffic.”
What he heard: “You’re going to kill us all, you crazy rage-monster!”
At Target buying last-minute things:
What I said: “I think we should get her the blue pillow.
What I probably meant: “The teal will brighten the place up. “
What he heard: “The dog has better taste than you, and she’s color blind.
What I said: “Do you want some coffee?”
What I probably meant: “I could use a pick-me-up. Does anyone else want one?”
What he heard: “You are a giant, Debbie-downer turd. Please drink some caffeine so you can stop being a turd. Stat.”
On the way home:
What I said: “The speed limit is 70 now!”
What I probably meant: “Yay! We’re finally out of the construction zone!”
What he heard: “You drive like my grandma.”
On the road:
What I said: “Put a Clif bar in your cakehole.”
What I probably meant: “Put a Clif bar in your cakehole. NOW! You’re driving me nuts!”
What he heard: Yeah, okay. He had to get one right.
What I said: “She’ll be okay. She’s ready for this.”
What he heard: “I never loved her like you do. I should have raised show rats.”
What I probably meant: “I miss her, too.”
Sweet Girl-child, don’t you even worry. You’re going to do great! And we’ll be okay, too.
I have years of experience hatching and raising a variety of creatures. There is this little one:
And then there’s this one:
We usually do one of two things. After hatching, the animals are either surplussed to other facilities , or they are reared to adulthood and become a part of the program. I’ve entered uncharted waters this time around. For the first time ever, I’m preparing for a release directly into the wild.
My feelings are mixed. On the one hand, it’s incredibly exciting to know that I am potentially contributing to future generations. I’ve worked really hard, and it’s time. On the other hand, I’m having a hard time letting go. It’s impossible to raise a hatchling and watch it grow from glorified larva into something that can fend for itself without becoming too attached. To say I’m emotionally invested might just be the understatement of the year.
I knew what I was getting into when I signed on for the project. At least I thought I did. I read the books, talked to people who had done it themselves, read all the research. I knew my involvement would be time-limited. That’s the way it is supposed to be, the way it has always been. Keep them in captivity for too long and they don’t thrive the way they should. I knew that. I know that. But it’s hard.
The launch date is set, and as it looms ever closer, I worry. That’s just how I’m made. I worry, and I wonder. When facing release, there are so many questions. Will the hatchling find a safe place to go? Find food? Will she live alone, or will she wander until it finds another of her kind? Has she learned all that is necessary to survive and thrive? These are the normal questions, and sometimes we never learn the answers.
The most important question remains, the only one that really matters. Will she ever find her way back home?
I’ve never raised a human being to adult size before. Someone tell me what I’m supposed to do now. I am feeling a little lost.
I sit here frozen at the keyboard. All the words that have been rattling around in my head for the last two hours have disappeared, flitting away like figments of my imagination. Wait. They were figments of my imagination, and they’ve left me, the little traitors.
My ailment isn’t a new one, nor is it undiagnosed. I am suffering from the dreaded Rewrite Paralysis. A few weeks ago, I got the bill for Girl-child’s first year of college tuition, and I came to the conclusion that, if I want to continue my day job, I am going to have to sell a book. If you’ve been around a while, you’ll know that leaving the zoo isn’t an option. I love it too much. If you’re a new reader, click the “turtles and tortoises” tab at the top. Yeah, I’m with the zoo forever. So, it’s time to pee or get off the pot.
I have a metric crap-ton** of excuses for not rewriting this novel sooner. Let’s get them out here in the open.
But if I’m really honest, there’s only one reason I haven’t delved head-first into rewrites.
I. Am. Scared.
The what-ifs are, quite frankly, eating me alive. What if I dedicate my whole world to this book only to discover that no one really DOES care? What if I do just fine with short little blog posts, but I’m not good enough to write a novel? What if I fail?
My answer to that last what-if is simple. I might fail, but I won’t die from it. Unless a potential agent reads it and finds it so horrible that they ouleave their big city office, come to my house, and bludgeon me to death with the e-file. I am still scared, but I am fairly certain this scenario won’t actually play out. I’m unlisted.
So this summer, I am stretching out of my comfort zone by joining Teachers Write, a four-week online camp for educators. If you’re a teacher, I recommend you join. It’s free. We get valuable feedback and a supportive community.
In keeping with the busting out of my wheelhouse, I will share the character sketch I wrote yesterday n response to this assignment. I am uncomfortable with this work because I am conflicted about writing in dialect. But it feels inauthentic not to. It won’t be for everybody, and I need to stop thinking that it will be. Not everyone loved Harry Potter, you know. Also, what is a wheelhouse?
** Little known fact: the official system for measuring excuses is metric.