Dear Afternoon Jogger

Dear Afternoon Jogger, 

   While peering out my sunny classroom window today, I noticed you bounding down the sidewalk in aerobic stride.  Like the ubiquitous paintings placed in a physician's waiting room you, the jogger, coalesced into the peaceful suburban setting.  But then your presence in the scene caught my attention.  Maybe it was the neon orange shoes you wore, but I noticed you, really noticed you. 
   I glanced at my red and white clock hanging on the opposite wall, and took note of the time: 1:52 pm.  So here is my question: How exactly do you earn a living?  Are you self-employed with flexible hours?  Are you a stay at home parent with a live-in nanny or school-aged children?  Do you work nights?  Are you a trust fund baby?  Was today your day off?
   Please forgive my nosiness, but I simply must ask because if seized by the urge to partake in some early afternoon exercise, I'd like to know the accompanying profession. Most days after work I'm exhausted and can't find the energy to workout. Maybe if I jogged earlier in the day, then I would have plenty of strength! Please, please enlighten me to your bourgeoisie way. 
    Held captive to scheduled hours of my day, I first felt envious of your liberated calendar.  However, on second thought, the idea of pounding pavement while dripping sweat on such a glorious day appeals to me not.  If given the chance of freedom on a blissful bright afternoon, I would find a million other things to do besides run.  So, tomorrow if I happen to catch sight of you again, I will salute you in wave for your dedicated effort.  Carpe Diem. 

~Truly, Cinderella (the working class Cinde, of course)

P.S.  But really, what do you do?

Photo courtesy of activerain.com

In Memory of a Sunset

Originally, I'd planned a lighthearted post for this week; however, after tragic loss, I've chosen a more somber tone.  A dear friend of mine unexpectedly lost her husband a few days ago and my heart breaks for her.  
Therefore, in honor of my friend:

~May your strength in spirit allow you to find peace, and someday, once the dust has settled, may you witness the beauty of a West Texas sunset again.

In Memory of a Sunset
The sun shines on her face, illuminating truth.

Before.  The inscrutable darkness, which consumed his conscious approached like rumbling clouds in a black, violent dirt storm. The air smelled of clay and the impending sand storm approached.  Mercurial moods orchestrated the production, indifferent to those who stood below.  Earth mother, the playwright, wrote the script long ago and the gods directed the actors: wind, sky and sand. Peering out onto that untamed stage, the woman noticed the trees shimmy and writhe, shaking their nerves before the play began.  They stretched and warmed their muscles diligently preparing for their mimes.  The clay and sky clasped hands, for on this day their characters aligned in quiet indignation and united in muddy colors of muted red and gray.  The trees angrily cried out to the sands, who nod and began their ascension to the sky.

The dust builds in prolific grandeur, producing a prodigious dark cloud of dirt.  Ominous and unyielding, the callous storm blocks the pleasant sun.  Onlookers grieve the sight and scurry inside to find shelter.  But shelter cannot be found, for the dirt creeps through crevices and settles on still surfaces.  If only all would rest atop a surface; instead particles crash and collide against the air, suffocating those who desperately desire the calming rays of sun.  Rain will not come.  The sun will not shine.  Blue skies remain at bay, blocked by cruel winds who pull from the desert floor and thrash grit across the landscape. Relief will not come.

Eventually the wind tires, eventually the haze of dust falls.  Vivid memories return like happiness in a jar released by the musty scent of dancing sprinklers, the distinct cool fragrance of earth covered by water.  Laughing children echo in a distant past.  Soft whispers are heard, whispers exchanged by lovers on back porches; lovers who know and keep shared secrets.  Time heals all hurts, so they say; gratefully, memories remain. The air is still now, the sun is setting.  And softly, the sun peeks over the earth's horizon to whisper goodnight, and with sincerest apology he offers his condolences.  "You see," he says, "the remnants of clay make for beautiful sunsets."  Shades of gold and burgundy fill the sky in monumental farewell, reminding us that the peace is found at dusk and the sun will brighten the Eastern sky in the morning.

Inspired by:
From In Memory of W.B. Yeats by W.H. Auden: 

  In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
 In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

Olympic Dreams with a dash of Twizzle

Photo courtesy of CBS

 Breathtaking, passionate, awe-inspiring.

If you watched the skating performance of Meryl Davis and Charlie White last night, then you probably were moved to emotion.  Maybe you watched out of obligation (like my husband) but found yourself entranced by the raw talent and magnificent beauty.  Just in case you missed it, here is a quick recap:

AMAZING!

The pair appeared ethereal, gliding in fluid motion across stark silver ice. Their luxurious purple costumes likened them to royalty and the two definitely reigned as king and queen on Sochi ice. Their moves were intricate and elegant.  White effortlessly lifted Davis across his body in seamless transition, "a curved lift," the announcer said, "practiced for over three years."  Led by musical crescendo, the dancers moved urgently across the frosty stage building up to a grand spin in which White swept Davis off the ice in exquisite beauty.  The crowd exploded in applause.  "A masterpiece" the announcer said while the other explained the routine had been "four to five years in the making." Flawless. They made it look easy.  The reward for all of their hard work?  Gold. First ever for the U.S. in Ice Dancing. 

 As a young girl I'd watch, mesmerized by the skaters lifts and spins.  Impacted by the scene, I asked my dad if I could learn to skate.  His reply, sound and practical, "We live in small town Texas.  There aren't any skating rinks around here."  Small problem for someone with my imagination.  The next time I went to the roll arena, I was Katarina Witt.  I figured I had time, and someday I too would become an ice princess.

I finally got to ice skate when the girls were small.  While visiting family in Lafayette, Indiana we stopped at a quaint outdoor park in late December.  We tied on bulky skates and fumbled our way onto the ice.  I took each of the girls around the rink, holding onto the side rail, afraid that I might fall and take a daughter with me. Far from the grace and poise of Katarina, I still treasure the memory.  I might not have become an Olympic ice skater, but I experienced the same beginning, just a little bit later.   

While I celebrated victory for the acclaimed medalists, I did what I always do.  I felt a tinge of nostalgia for years passed.  I longed for bright eyes eager to chase after empty dreams.  I missed the days filled with youthful creations when I'd mumble quietly,  "I can do it" and actually believed that I could become the next greatest Olympic athlete.

No longer disillusioned, I now know that I won't compete in the Olympics, EVER.  And that's okay, because the tremendous individuals who are competing did much more than dream.  They dreamed with intention, which makes all the difference in the world.  The rest of us who dreamed other dreams watch from home, applauding their accomplishments.  We are grateful to climb the peak and share the summit with them. 

When the dance was over, I stood up, turned on tiptoe, and told Matt that we should twizzle.  (I simply couldn't help myself--who doesn't love a good twizzle?)

Truly, Cinderella


 

Poppin' Tags

photo courtesy of http://portable.tv

  Poppin' Tags. Macklemore coined the phrase, but Matt Hubbard personifies thrift shop livin' luxury.  After the recent populism resurgence, second hand shopping is "in" again, and genuine thrift shoppers not only buy bargains but get things for free: dumpster divin' style!  Yep, my husband LIVES to find "gently used" items discarded near (occasionally lying atop) the receptacle  bin.  Although I don't get the same thrill from the sport as Matt, I have been an accessory to thrifting. 

     The first time we thrifted together was while looking for a Halloween costume. I wanted to dress Matt as Roger Sterling (Mad Men) but we didn't have the right clothes for him to wear at my house (he was still living in Dallas at the time).  So off we went to find befitting dress clothes for the nineteen sixties.  First stop, Goodwill.  We found a couple of dress pants, black and grey-both under $10! With googly eyes Matt said, "These are nice slacks!  I can't believe they're so cheap!"  He wore those pants and not just to the party.  

     I too enjoy the bargain shopping. I've bought numerous items.  What usually happens is that I shop charitable second hand stores for an event; costume or themed party, ugly Christmas sweater party, spirit days at school, but then I end up finding a great pair of capris I can't live without or a bright, springy shirt that's perfect for a Saturday morning in April.  However, I draw the line at trashcan hunting.  Matt does not.

     When we lived in Lubbock, he was constantly dragging in "finds" from the alley similar to that of a dog hauling in a dead bird.  "Look at this lamp?" he'd say, displaying his new find or "can you believe someone threw away this bike?  Looks like new!" he'd exclaim.  However, as he tinkered with the lamp disappointment would sit down beside him.  And in short time the "find" took a trip back to the dumpster. 

    After moving to DFW this past summer, his "neighborhood" expanded, a trash-diggers wonderland. Upon moving in he stumbled across a "Sander! Brand new!  Still in the Box!" next to the dumsters! (The sander currently resides in our garage and we're really not sure if operable.) 
 
     Next while at the Marcus tennis center, he found a lunchbox lying ever so slightly at the top of the trash can. "Did you see this?" he said, holding up the fabric tote as I walked up.  I told him I had seen it and wondered why someone had thrown it away.  Unlike him, I didn't investigate further. "There isn't a spot on it. It's perfectly clean inside." Eyes dancing, he said to me, "Haven't you wanted a new lunch pail to take to school?"  I happily took the lunchbox and admittedly, use it every day. 

     Finally, just last week he wheeled in a Swiss Gear Rolling Briefcase in black.  "It smells a little like gasoline, but I think the odor comes from being stored inside someone's garage." He began fixing the problem.  And in case you ever need to "fix such a problem" here is how: 

1. Stuff gain fabric dryer sheets into the zippered pockets.  
2. Remove and repeat until smell dissipates.  

    He took it with him to Florida last week and reports that it's fully functional, holding all three of his laptops (2 for work and 1 for play- a hoarder's blog to follow) and other work materials. The girls teased him about it to which he replied, "One man's trash is another man's come up."  He has taken Macklemore's words to heart.


Truly, Cinderella

The Personal Blog: A Literary Selfie

     My seventh grade daughter bounded into my classroom today and told me, "Mom, I'm an awesome actress!  I'm definitely going to Broadway!"

     To which I responded, "Humility Madilyn, humility.  Narcissistic much?" She laughed and then I followed up by saying, "Of course you're wonderful!  Tell me what happened today."

     We live in a time of unadulterated vanity.  The Kardashian culture.  "Don't tell me how wonderful I am, because I'm going to tell you first," mentality. Scores of teenage girls post duck-faced selfies, no longer restricted to Sundays instead they post most every day of the week. I know the cardio habits of a stranger (the woman who FB befriended me after I met her at a conference) because of her copious status updates regarding her cross-fit morning workouts. And while I must admit I'm jealous, I'm not jealous enough to go to cross-fit myself!  Another friend tweets the benefits of a gluten free diet, and although I've dipped my toe into this growing fad, I've yet to submerge fully.  A friend from the past brags about the newest piece of ocean front property she's purchased because she is "so blessed by God!" I guess that means I'm not.  Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook have created the new social world in which we live, full of self-promotion.  But we can't blame social media for all our ills—we, the players control the information.  Clearly society craves the ability to connect, not limited to friends, family, and neighbors.  We desire intimacy, even with those whom which we lost physical contact with long ago, and in turn we share ourselves.  For some time now I've objected to this new obsession maintaining that self-effacing propriety breeds respectable women and men, and humanity is doomed, our lives devoid of authentic human interaction if we don't stop.

     However, today I recant.  How can I judge?  I'm just as guilty.  I post irrelevant status updates and glamorous vacation pictures too.  I'm guilty of choosing the perfect picture displaying my best to upload.  And why?  The answer is why not?

     As with anything else newly introduced, we learn how to maneuver and self-monitor.  We learn that it's rude to surf endless Insta images and tweets when enjoying family dinner. We learn that trivialities throughout the course of the day don't always require historical documentation.  Although finding "your dog asleep under the bed" might merit a patient nod and smile, quite possibly even a like from the social landscape to show that we can all relate.  We're staying in touch, and though naysayers claim, “it’s the end of communication" I beg to differ.  It's new and most people inherently dislike change.  They forget to find the good.  

     Allow me a few more words, the perfect anecdote. A best friend of mine recently had a baby. Her husband wanted to post pictures of their adorable, infant son, but anguished over doing so. My friend asked him, "why?" He replied that he didn't want seem like a braggart.  She replied by saying, "If there were ever a time to post pictures, pictures of our newborn son, the time is now."  Excellent point. 

     Naysayers have forgotten the good.  Good like: world events are unveiled instantaneously and doesn't that create accountability? Good like: I'm able to watch my baby cousins grow in real time even though they live hundreds of miles away.  Good like: I'm able to share moments, like my daughter's high school graduation, my youngest daughter's talent shows, my husband's quirky stories, my step-daughter's un-braced teeth with all those who might want to celebrate with me.  In turn, I want to know about your life, too.  To quote Veronica Roth, we live for the moments "that don't suck" and during the other times our hearts break together because this is our new community.

     As of today, I'm crossing back over to the dark side.  I will kiss the pool of water and listen for Echo to return.  And here is why: my life, much like yours, is filled with fantastic, bizarre stories that cannot be kept secret anymore.  The stories wiggle and writhe, scratching at my fingertips begging to be told, but time and again I quiet them because I haven't wanted to appear ostentatious sharing brazen family tales.  I write for myself, but haven't written to you.  Today, the book is opened.  The secret is out.  

     After marrying Matt in 2010, I still feel like I'm living inside a fairytale remembered, a slightly dysfunctional blended-family fairytale, but none-the-less, a fairytale in which I'm the queen!  I invite you to join our journey. 

Truly, Cinderella 

A day in the life of...

  My friends and I share a joke that my family should have a reality t.v. show, and yet again today's occurrences proved to be another example fit for an episode on TLC. 
   After a great summer, I've gone back to work, teacher in-service, and when the alarm sounds at 6:00 a.m. my body goes into auto pilot:  bathroom, coffee, makeup, hair, pill, and clothes--in that order.  Daily, I take hormonal therapy, which is usually on my nightstand, but while Matt was out of town this week,  I'd placed the bottle on his nightstand.   So, I did what I always do and popped my pill, without bothering to look at the color or shape before placing it into my mouth.  After dressing and gathering up my bag, the room began to spin.  My initial thought was that the spinning was due to lack of dinner or breakfast, but after grabbing a breakfast bar the problem only worsened.  I knew that I couldn't drive, and I called my husband to take me to work.
    Once inside the car, my words began to slur and my sweet Matt helped me assess the problem.
    "Did you take anything this morning?"  he asked.
    "No, just my hormone pill."  I answered.
    "Where was the bottle?"
    "On your nightstand." 
     "Marsi, the only bottle on mine is my Ambien.  Did you take my Ambien?"
     "Oh my God!!  I think did."
     "Did you not notice it wasn't your pill?  Did you take a whole one?"
     "Yes, I took a whole one; I thought it was mine."
     "Holy shit!  I take a half when I need to sleep.  And it's the good stuff; the CR will knock a person out.  You're not going to work today."
     "I can make it.  I'm not teaching, so I can just sit."
     "I don't think it's a good idea, but call one of your friends out here.  You'll need help to walk into the building."
    I texted a fellow teacher to come out to the car, and after taking one glance at me she asked if I was drunk.  I attempted to stand-up and I fell against the passenger side door.
     "I caaan make ittt.  I'llll jus nap insi-de my chairrr." I slurred.
    Laughing, Katie said, "Nope.  You need to go home and sleep this one off.  I'll tell one of the principals what happened.
    "Okay."  I surrendered and requested McDonald's on the way home.  Matt protested on account of a conference call, but my munchies and persistent pleas won him over.  
    However, people don't eat when taking a sleep aid--they want to sleep.  And if there isn't a warning on the bottle there should be:  Don't eat after taking pill.  I ate half my sandwich but it later ended up on my bedroom floor....partially digested.  That too, my poor husband had to clean up.
    I have such wonderful caring people in my life.  Not only my husband, but also my friends.  Later in the morning Katie texted me from the school to check on me, and this is what I replied:
    Not s secret,  Yout kidding l! Procrdursl recr? Nubrs!  Crazy  
The English department got a good laugh decoding that one! What was that I said about kind, caring friends.  ;)   Just another day in the life...

Truly,
~Cinderella



   
   

Two Years!

       Yesterday, Matt and I celebrated our second anniversary in what some might consider a rather lackluster commemoration of the big day.  We, however, thought the day was perfect in all its quirkiness and practicality. 
       The day began the day before, on June 4th, with a phone call to the Overton Hotel to cancel our reservation.  Sweet Matt had booked a suite for us, but when he told me about the surprise I suggested that we cancel.  I reasoned we should save our money for our upcoming vacation with the children to Disney World, and instead of leaving for the night we could spend our special day with them.  Having no qualms with my decision, he happily canceled.  Later on in the day, just before bedtime, he said he needed to run to the store to grab something.  I knew that was code for "buy an anniversary card so that I have it for Marsi in the morning."
     Now some women might be offended by this last minute purchase, but I didn't mind because I hadn't bought him a card.  In fact, I went to the store with him!  So there we were, standing in the card aisle at United picking out the perfect card for one another.  Matt seemed more upset by the situation than I, saying that our apathetic action was an bad omen for things to come, but I disagreed.
     "Listen, we like to have original moments, don't we?  This is unique to us and we'll always remember this anniversary, above all others, the one where we stood side by side to pick out our cards for one another."  I explained, but he still seemed unconvinced.  I knew I must appeal to his practical side and remain excited.  
     "I found yours!  It's perfect!" I enthusiastically announced.
     With that, he selected the envelope to the one he was reading, placed the card inside, and returned my sentiment.
     "Let's exchange here, then we don't have to buy them!" I emphatically stated.
     "RH-EALLY?" he said, looking around to see if anyone was watching.  Though cautious, I knew he liked the idea of saving money.   When he was sure the coast was clear, we gave each other the card we had chosen.
     He had decided on card that beautifully described our relationship and I had chosen one about his fine qualities as a husband.
     After we read them I said, "Okay, now tell me what you would have written inside."   Matt thought for a moment before offering up the most encouraging, appreciative words that made my heart smile.  On my turn, I attempted a poetic rendition portraying my undying love, but poetry isn't birthed inside a supermarket; thus I turned to prose.  I described how he is the most giving and unselfish man, who possesses patience and kindness, and I thanked him for being such a strong and successful provider for our family.  I felt more love for him in that moment, than one in which I would have simply opened and read a card.  This was authentic, this was a first, and this was us.  We hugged, put the cards back, and hurried off to the bread aisle.

        And what did we do on the big day?   Matt worked but took a break to have brunch with me at IHOP.  Yes, IHOP.  It's what we wanted.  For dinner I made spaghetti, and we sipped Merlot.  The children ran screaming from the dining room when we stood to dance in the kitchen to our song,  "She's Everything" by Brad Paisley.  He kissed me when the song ended, and with that kiss our perfectly practical anniversary concluded.

Truly,
Cinderella