Many moons (OK, eight years) ago, my brother and I ran a TNT fireworks stand in Beatrice, NE. We have absolutely no connection to Beatrice, but at the time I did know someone connected with TNT and my brother needed some summer work, so I arranged the stand and helped run it for one very long, very hot week.
Growing up we were not big fireworks people. I mean, our family would always go and buy some to shoot off at the farm and we would usually go into Yankton to watch the local display, but we were never as gung-ho as some. If anything, my favorite part of fireworks, beyond sparklers, was watching my dad run through the twilight, cussing up a storm, as he tried to put enough space between himself and whatever he had just lit out in the hay field. Now that was entertaining!
So, yes. Our fireworks stand... surprisingly, it was a pretty big success. Our original stock had to be delivered in a large, yellow Penske truck. What was left at the end of the week fit into our two cars, along with all of my brother and his friend Mike's (our third partner in the biz) camping stuff. They slept each night in the stand with, I believe, baseball bats as protection against thieves. I drove back to my apartment in Lincoln each night so I could sleep in a bed and air conditioning; clearly I got the better end of that deal, even though I ultimately let them have most of the take-home, so perhaps they didn't have it so bad after all.
The secret to our success? B.S. Totally and all the way. I mean, obviously we don't know much about fireworks, but apparently we are good salesmen. We quickly turned into used car dealers, leading patrons around the booth, pointing out the best (ahem! most expensive) products our stand had to offer. When people asked about the color or noise or longevity of a certain firework, we'd nod and smile and assure them all the way that it was Great! Fantastic! Real quality!
Truth? We had never shot any products that we sold that week. Not a single one. We did dink around with the Snaps quite a bit, but somehow, lighting fireworks when you're selling them, certainly in the direct vicinity anyway, doesn't seem like the best idea. But we wanted to sell as much as possible, so we embellished and we promoted (euphemisms, my friends, for flat-out lying!). And, we sold.
Now, I am not especially proud (nor am I terribly ashamed) of my days as a fireworks huckster. It was a decent way to make money quickly and that was our ultimate goal. The reason I'm reflecting on it now is because it is once again that lovely time in NE when fireworks stands are open for the week preceding the Fourth of July.
Truth? I hate this week. Because I can still take 'em or leave 'em, I just don't get it, this fascination that people seem to have with buying loud, annoying fireworks that they can shoot off in town. It is a pain in the butt to listen to these things each night and I find myself praying for 11:00 to come quickly so that they have to shut down their little nightly home displays. Since having had children, fireworks bother me even more because I'm worried about my kiddos waking up thanks to some ridiculous artillery shell or bottle rocket. It was even worse when we had the dogs here because they would spend each night shaking and refusing to go out to pee because of all the noise. Part of why we've been out of town the last few years on the Fourth is just to get away from the noise by going to stay with either of our parents on their farms; this is how much we've found it bothersome. This year, though, I'm in the middle of teaching another class, so we are town-bound. And last night, I about lost my mind.
Raegan had just let me get to bed a little after 10:00 and by 10:30, just as I was drifting off, somebody's silly little (but big enough) boomers woke me up. Woke me up and ticked me off, I should say. Sleep is the most precious commodity in my life right now and, sure enough, the booms kept coming right up until 11:00, so I had to wait until then to try to calm my mind down and go to sleep. Getting calm isn't the easiest task when all you can think about is marching through the darkened streets of your neighborhood at 10:45 p.m., looking for the firework enthusiast so you can tell them where to put said fireworks (have I mentioned that I am both sleep deprived and perhaps dealing with some postpartum anger issues?!).
The whole thing had me so upset and wondering, once again, why people buy or bother with fireworks in the first place. Is it really a patriotic thing? What do members of the military think? I don't know anyone close enough to ask, but I really don't see how anyone, military or not, could like hearing what sounds like gunshots in the night during the this time of year.
In case you couldn't guess, my children have had zero exposure to fireworks. Of course RL is too young, but we've neither had Harrison around them at our house or taken him to see them at a city display, either. Not only do I find them unsafe, but they also interfere with bedtime and I'm sure you know how I feel about that!
Ben raised a brilliant question the other night when we heard the first pops of the season. He asked, "Why don't people take the money they spend on fireworks and donate it to a VA hospital?" See?! Brilliant! Sometimes my husband's practicality can go too far and frustrate me, but this time we are in total agreement. Why don't people do that? I can't think of a better way to be patriotic than to give money to a VA group or shelter or hospital or something that helps honor, serve, and protect those who have done the very same for all of us.
I know I'll never rid myself or my summer nights of other people's fireworks. It is just too big of an industry and too many people like loud things. I also know I'll never be able to keep my kids away from fireworks forever. That being said, I can make darn well sure that any money we spend at a fireworks stand being one-overed by some punk college kids will be at least doubled in a donation to a Veteran's group of some sort....that is something I can fully support and celebrate.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Alice in Wonderland
I don't think it is a far stretch for any mom of two young littles to feel like she lives in some sort of alternate universe. You know, one where time is measured by the space between sleep (or lack thereof) and feedings and diaper changes, or the one where you listen to the Dinosaur Train soundtrack for the umpteenth time (that week) because it's what your two-almost-three-year-old picked, again. You know, some imaginary place like that.
I also don't think it is a far stretch for that same mom to feel, some days, like she ended up in this universe quite by accident....I'm not saying that it was an unhappy accident, just unexplainable at times.
No, I would say that some days, at given moments, motherhood feels quite a lot like falling down a rabbit hole and being totally confused and all discombobulated, Alice-style. And why wouldn't it? What in this life really prepares you for what it is like to bring new life into the world? And to top that, what in this life really prepares you for what is it like to care for that new life? It is, at times, a daunting job, and one that has me constantly wondering if I'm doing enough.
Moving beyond the mommy guilt, though, I find myself worrying for the safety of my children quite a bit. It is not that I think they are in any real threat or danger (except for that time HD ran down the sidewalk, headed straight for 12th Street. which happens to be one of the main drags in Hastings - now that had my heart racing for all of the wrong reasons!). I guess I just use my overactive imagination and borrow trouble because I worry that they will get hurt doing something simple, something common, and then I will forever feel it was my fault for not having been able to prevent said hurt.
Perhaps if my children weren't so darn active, I wouldn't be paralyzed by this particular parental fear quite so much. As it is, they are and I am. That's life. But what I'm learning in this life is that I, too, can be quick on my feet and with my thinking. That's not to say I've prevented every possible injury (Harrison's shins are all kinds of two-almost-three-year-old-boy-bruised), but from time to time I catch a kiddo mid-fall or leave a well-placed pillow or blanket on the floor to soften the space or think of some clever reminder of Safety First!
Enter Alice. Or better yet, keep her from entering.
That's right. This lovely little sign (and its bright green counterpart on the other side) has a new home on the door to our basement stairs. We use these steps a lot because they lead to the playroom and the family room, and since we moved in January, we've always left it hanging open or at least unlatched. No big deal. The problem, now, though, is that my own little Alice has decided that stairs, along with shoes and paper, are pretty much the coolest. things. ever. And so she gravitates to them.
Seeing as having Raegan tumble down this particular rabbit hole is one of my worst nightmares, I decided to do something visual (because repeatedly telling my boys to close the door wasn't so much working). Insert bright neon cardstock, a Sharpie, an unintended literary reference and you get: SHUT ME!
Really, when I did this, I wasn't thinking of Alice or Wonderland. But now I'm loving it even more because, if nothing else, it is evidence that my book brain still exists, even if I have no time to nourish it these days. But what I really love, is how quickly both boys picked up on it. Although I am, perhaps, a bit quick to praise. I mean, really...it is bright stinkin' pink. How could you miss it?!
Thankfully, they did not. Harrison was all over it on his first encounter asking me 10 times in a row, "What's this say?" The 11th time I said, "What do you think it says?" (a common question I give him when I know he knows the answer to something he's asking me) and he got a big grin on his face as he declared, "SHUT ME!" And to his credit, so far, he has. Ben is getting the message too, and to his credit, he even picked up on the AiW thing. Such good boys I have!
Now, if we can just get Little Miss to find other, less fear-inducing places to play, we shall be in great shape. Anyone know in what universe that might be? ;)
I also don't think it is a far stretch for that same mom to feel, some days, like she ended up in this universe quite by accident....I'm not saying that it was an unhappy accident, just unexplainable at times.
No, I would say that some days, at given moments, motherhood feels quite a lot like falling down a rabbit hole and being totally confused and all discombobulated, Alice-style. And why wouldn't it? What in this life really prepares you for what it is like to bring new life into the world? And to top that, what in this life really prepares you for what is it like to care for that new life? It is, at times, a daunting job, and one that has me constantly wondering if I'm doing enough.
Moving beyond the mommy guilt, though, I find myself worrying for the safety of my children quite a bit. It is not that I think they are in any real threat or danger (except for that time HD ran down the sidewalk, headed straight for 12th Street. which happens to be one of the main drags in Hastings - now that had my heart racing for all of the wrong reasons!). I guess I just use my overactive imagination and borrow trouble because I worry that they will get hurt doing something simple, something common, and then I will forever feel it was my fault for not having been able to prevent said hurt.
Perhaps if my children weren't so darn active, I wouldn't be paralyzed by this particular parental fear quite so much. As it is, they are and I am. That's life. But what I'm learning in this life is that I, too, can be quick on my feet and with my thinking. That's not to say I've prevented every possible injury (Harrison's shins are all kinds of two-almost-three-year-old-boy-bruised), but from time to time I catch a kiddo mid-fall or leave a well-placed pillow or blanket on the floor to soften the space or think of some clever reminder of Safety First!
Enter Alice. Or better yet, keep her from entering.
That's right. This lovely little sign (and its bright green counterpart on the other side) has a new home on the door to our basement stairs. We use these steps a lot because they lead to the playroom and the family room, and since we moved in January, we've always left it hanging open or at least unlatched. No big deal. The problem, now, though, is that my own little Alice has decided that stairs, along with shoes and paper, are pretty much the coolest. things. ever. And so she gravitates to them.
Seeing as having Raegan tumble down this particular rabbit hole is one of my worst nightmares, I decided to do something visual (because repeatedly telling my boys to close the door wasn't so much working). Insert bright neon cardstock, a Sharpie, an unintended literary reference and you get: SHUT ME!
Really, when I did this, I wasn't thinking of Alice or Wonderland. But now I'm loving it even more because, if nothing else, it is evidence that my book brain still exists, even if I have no time to nourish it these days. But what I really love, is how quickly both boys picked up on it. Although I am, perhaps, a bit quick to praise. I mean, really...it is bright stinkin' pink. How could you miss it?!
Thankfully, they did not. Harrison was all over it on his first encounter asking me 10 times in a row, "What's this say?" The 11th time I said, "What do you think it says?" (a common question I give him when I know he knows the answer to something he's asking me) and he got a big grin on his face as he declared, "SHUT ME!" And to his credit, so far, he has. Ben is getting the message too, and to his credit, he even picked up on the AiW thing. Such good boys I have!
Now, if we can just get Little Miss to find other, less fear-inducing places to play, we shall be in great shape. Anyone know in what universe that might be? ;)
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Dear Harrison
With everything I've been experiencing professionally in recent weeks, I've been doing a lot of thinking about my life personally, and more specifically, about what I hope to teach my own children about life and how to treat others. So thanks to Momastery for the letter idea and my dear friend
S. for the words of wisdom during a recent email exchange about the kinds of
boys we hope to raise…
To My Dear Harrison,
As your mama, I have great expectations for you. How could I
not? I see the amazing and wonderful accomplishments you make each and every
day and my heart soars with the idea of your potential. Your wheels are turning
all the time (both in your mind and on your feet). You feel so many emotions to
such great extents. You create and play and sing. You remind me constantly that
there is so much in this life to see and do and be.
As your mama, I want you to be all you, all the time because
life without you as you just wouldn’t be enough. It would be too slow. Too
quiet. Too lacking in HD-ness. I just now realized that we’ve been calling you HD
from Day One (or maybe Two or Five) as a nickname for Harrison David, but you
really are my High Definition Man, too, and I love it. Sweetheart, I wouldn’t
have you any other way!
As your mama, I of course hope that these expectations and
dreams for you will not pressure or crush you – now or ever. Really, all I ask
is that you be in this world in such a way that is true to you and to others.
That’s all. I want you to embrace what makes you special and what makes you
smile. I also want you to embrace what makes other people special and what
makes them smile. Well, maybe not embrace 100% of it 100% of the time, but at
least accept, tolerate, allow, encourage, etc. all that you meet. I know you
can do it, Boo. You have a big brain and an even bigger heart, which will serve
you well as you grow.
As your mama, I want you to know that growing up to be a man
isn’t going to be fast or easy. It also isn’t something to which I’ll really be
able to relate. I promise, though, that I’ll try my best to understand your
boyhood and your teenage years and your guyness and your eventual evolution
into grown man. I also promise that
I will do whatever I can to help you become a man who knows how to treat women
(and men for that matter) with respect. Fortunately you have wonderful examples
of what this kind of man looks like thanks to the men in our family. May you
continue and expand these lessons so that you know, in every situation, what it
means to be polite, appropriate, and aware.
As your mama, I want you to remember that we all matter. Honey,
everyone you meet in this crazy beautiful world will have the potential to
impact you. Remember that you will have the same potential for them, so be
thoughtful and gentle in your approach. It will be your choices, your actions, and
your responses that determine your roles in life. Be a man of substance but
remember that substance can be found in even the smallest acts of kindness and
gratitude. You do not have to put on a big show to be a big man.
As your mama, Harrison, I am blessed. I can already see that
the lights in your eyes are so bright; you will find ways out of even the
darkest of times. Share that light, Honey. Share it with those you love and
with those who lack love. Share it so that others may learn from all that you
think and feel and do. I know, from experience, that you have the power to make
a person’s heart and mind grow; thanks for that, Love!
With Much Love Always,
Your Mama
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Disrespected
Call it lack of sleep, or a bruised ego, or raging hormones, or a moon thing, or a girl thing, or a teacher thing, or a mom thing. Doesn't really matter...I'm feeling deflated. But I'm also still here, so that alone has to say something.
I haven't been able to write for a while because I started teaching for the summer (two classes, each completed in 3 hrs. each morning for three weeks in back-to-back three-week sessions), and it has been a wee bit hectic. It has also been unnecessarily stressful thanks in large part to some huge disrespect from some students taking my first class. I won't go into details. I will instead redirect you, and myself, to my newest and most favoritest of all timest Shakespeare quotes: "Although she be little, she is fierce." In other words - don't eff with me because I'm a girl or I'm small or whatever. I will not have it.
All that being said, the stress is still there. The turn-around on a class like this is brutal, even if I don't have as many students in the class as I do during a normal semester session. I have very little time for planning or grading before the next class, and once I'm home for the afternoon/evening, it is hard to find time for school stuff. People talk about mommy guilt a lot, but I think that working parents probably feel a bit of ______ guilt too (in this case, teacher guilt), because it seems that nothing and no one ever quite gets your full attention and best. Of course I feel worse about the mommy guilt, especially because of some of the yahoos I've been dealing with for the last two-and-a-half weeks; they aren't worth any of my concern.
Actually, when I look at how things have been in my classroom lately, it strikes me as being shockingly familiar to what I deal with at home on a daily basis. Not listening. Talking out of turn. Acting out negatively just to get attention. All of this is toddler crap, not college student crap. Except, now, I'm learning that there might not be big differences between the two. At least at home I can expect it and tell myself, "He is only two. She is just a baby." In other words, they are still learning and it is developmentally appropriate for them to push boundaries and explore and basically get on my nerves; they aren't intentionally trying to irritate me, no matter how much it may feel like the exact opposite of that some days.
The reason I'm so deflated tonight is that I'm honestly just spent. Ben is gone for a conference for a couple and a half days (yes, I know - not a proper phrase) and it is wearing on me. Fortunately I've had wonderful friends to help out with the kiddos while I'm gone to campus in the mornings, but then I come home and it's all me, all afternoon, evening, and night. (insert extreme awe and respect for single parents HERE)
Yesterday was a comedy of errors in terms of the children ping-ponging on sleep during the day, and even though Harrison did an amazing job of sleeping through the night, Raegan still had me hopping enough times to leave me tired before today even began. Add that on top of the shenanigans at school and you can see why Visine is my first makeup step each morning; my eyes, like the rest of me, are just kind of done.
With my nerves so frayed, it is no wonder that Harrison and I butted heads for most of this afternoon. I know kids feed off a parent's energy, but that knowledge really doesn't help me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse because it is basically telling me that when my kids are acting like poop, it is (perhaps in part or perhaps entirely) because my own vibe and attitude are pretty stinky. Doesn't really make a girl feel better about herself, ya know?
But, when you're the only one around, you have to just keep going and so, today, we went. We got through it, unpretty as it may have been. And, amazingly, both children are currently sleeping. For how long? No one ever knows, but my glass of wine and I are enjoying the peace and quiet, no matter how fleeting they may be.
Ultimately, I guess my point here about respect is that it is a hot button issue for me and I need to learn how to deal with that. Whether I am in the classroom with students or at the dinner table with my family, I expect respect, which I really don't think is a bad thing. I don't know if this stems from my own nature or the way I was raised or what, but disrespect just pisses me off. I guess the only thing I can really do about it, though, besides attempting to check my own anger at it, is to continue conducting myself and my classroom and my house with as much respect as possible. I do believe that you get what you give in this life (which means the whole kids/parents attitude mirror is true - blech!). So, eventually, if I just continue to to put out more good than bad, good I shall get in return.
Let's just hope that in 10 years, my son remembers more Zen Mama moments than Mean Mama ones, eh?
I haven't been able to write for a while because I started teaching for the summer (two classes, each completed in 3 hrs. each morning for three weeks in back-to-back three-week sessions), and it has been a wee bit hectic. It has also been unnecessarily stressful thanks in large part to some huge disrespect from some students taking my first class. I won't go into details. I will instead redirect you, and myself, to my newest and most favoritest of all timest Shakespeare quotes: "Although she be little, she is fierce." In other words - don't eff with me because I'm a girl or I'm small or whatever. I will not have it.
All that being said, the stress is still there. The turn-around on a class like this is brutal, even if I don't have as many students in the class as I do during a normal semester session. I have very little time for planning or grading before the next class, and once I'm home for the afternoon/evening, it is hard to find time for school stuff. People talk about mommy guilt a lot, but I think that working parents probably feel a bit of ______ guilt too (in this case, teacher guilt), because it seems that nothing and no one ever quite gets your full attention and best. Of course I feel worse about the mommy guilt, especially because of some of the yahoos I've been dealing with for the last two-and-a-half weeks; they aren't worth any of my concern.
Actually, when I look at how things have been in my classroom lately, it strikes me as being shockingly familiar to what I deal with at home on a daily basis. Not listening. Talking out of turn. Acting out negatively just to get attention. All of this is toddler crap, not college student crap. Except, now, I'm learning that there might not be big differences between the two. At least at home I can expect it and tell myself, "He is only two. She is just a baby." In other words, they are still learning and it is developmentally appropriate for them to push boundaries and explore and basically get on my nerves; they aren't intentionally trying to irritate me, no matter how much it may feel like the exact opposite of that some days.
The reason I'm so deflated tonight is that I'm honestly just spent. Ben is gone for a conference for a couple and a half days (yes, I know - not a proper phrase) and it is wearing on me. Fortunately I've had wonderful friends to help out with the kiddos while I'm gone to campus in the mornings, but then I come home and it's all me, all afternoon, evening, and night. (insert extreme awe and respect for single parents HERE)
Yesterday was a comedy of errors in terms of the children ping-ponging on sleep during the day, and even though Harrison did an amazing job of sleeping through the night, Raegan still had me hopping enough times to leave me tired before today even began. Add that on top of the shenanigans at school and you can see why Visine is my first makeup step each morning; my eyes, like the rest of me, are just kind of done.
With my nerves so frayed, it is no wonder that Harrison and I butted heads for most of this afternoon. I know kids feed off a parent's energy, but that knowledge really doesn't help me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse because it is basically telling me that when my kids are acting like poop, it is (perhaps in part or perhaps entirely) because my own vibe and attitude are pretty stinky. Doesn't really make a girl feel better about herself, ya know?
But, when you're the only one around, you have to just keep going and so, today, we went. We got through it, unpretty as it may have been. And, amazingly, both children are currently sleeping. For how long? No one ever knows, but my glass of wine and I are enjoying the peace and quiet, no matter how fleeting they may be.
Ultimately, I guess my point here about respect is that it is a hot button issue for me and I need to learn how to deal with that. Whether I am in the classroom with students or at the dinner table with my family, I expect respect, which I really don't think is a bad thing. I don't know if this stems from my own nature or the way I was raised or what, but disrespect just pisses me off. I guess the only thing I can really do about it, though, besides attempting to check my own anger at it, is to continue conducting myself and my classroom and my house with as much respect as possible. I do believe that you get what you give in this life (which means the whole kids/parents attitude mirror is true - blech!). So, eventually, if I just continue to to put out more good than bad, good I shall get in return.
Let's just hope that in 10 years, my son remembers more Zen Mama moments than Mean Mama ones, eh?
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Lament of the Yellow/Poppy Mug
No, I'm not kidding. I am writing about my travel mug. Actually, I am writing about the final demise of my travel mug and I really am lamenting it. Because it makes me a little bit sad to see it finally go. Because I've had the thing for nine years. Because it was a gift from a beloved family member. Because now I have to try to find another one and this one is going to be hard to replace.
You see, here is my Yellow/Poppy Mug.
If you have ever taken a class with me, or taught with me, or been around me when I am in Teacher Mode, you might recognize it. It's pretty much been my right hand in the classroom ever since I started out as a Teaching Assistant at UNL, but it actually dates back even longer than that.
I got my mug my junior year of college while visiting with my aunt, Tammy, and her husband, Tom, who were then living in New Jersey. For my 21st birthday present, I got to go stay with them and we spent time in New York City doing all kinds of awesome things (Um, Aida? On Broadway?! Hello, Wonderful!). One random stop we made, however, was in some little Starbucks in the middle of I don't know where in NYC, and I picked up this mug. Tammy got it for me as a little extra present, even though I was not a coffee drinker at the time. For years it only saw use for water (and occasionally for tea or hot chocolate). I loved it!
For various reasons (OK, one - my complexion), I don't wear yellow. That doesn't mean that I don't like the color, though, so I sometimes go looking for ways to incorporate it in my world. This mug became my sunshine and honestly, there have been days when drinking from a yellow cup was enough to make me smile. It didn't hurt that I also love red, and the big poppy flowers on the thing just worked for me.
All was well until one fateful morning in 2005 (or possibly 2006) when I was cruising down the hallway of Andrews Hall (where almost all English classes are taught at UNL) and I dropped my mug on the hard tile floor, chipping the bottom of it. Ugh. I could have cried right there. But fortunately I didn't break-break it. It really was just a chip. & I quickly learned that if I didn't submerge it when I washed it, everything was fine. This arrangement went on for years. Seven years (or possibly six), actually.
I am a huge water nut, and I always like to have some with me when I teach, so this mug went with me right after grad school to my first job teaching English at Central Community College. It then went with me when I switched to teaching 7-12 English in Palmer, NE in 2008. And in 2010, it started going back to CCC when I began teaching as an adjunct, one night class per semester.
Until just this summer, I've always used the mug as a sort of joke with my students. By way of introducing myself, I usually asked them early on in a course what they think I had in it. Of course most guessed coffee. But I used to hate coffee, so I would smile and assure them that nope, just water (Gee, I am so funny, aren't I?). Well, now that I have two small kiddos, quite frankly, coffee has become one of my best friends, so yes, this week, as I began teaching my first summer class of the year, I poured coffee in my mug (and took another one of water).
And this is precisely where my problem arose. My beloved Keurig doesn't fit my travel mug, so I have had to brew my coffee into an actual coffee cup and then dump it in Yellow/Poppy. After three days of doing this, I noticed tonight that there is now condensation inside on the paper lining of the mug's upper rim. Apparently there were cracks there that my less-than-graceful-coffee-pouring found that I used to miss when just pouring water in it.
I really don't need anything to start growing on it, so now I'm afraid I have to say goodbye. I can't believe I am this attached to silly mug from Starbucks, but I went to toss it in the trash tonight and realized that first I had to memorialize it. So here you have it - my Yellow/Poppy Lament.
Now. Where to find a replacement? Carrying my Dixie travel/hot cup thingies just won't cut it for long!
You see, here is my Yellow/Poppy Mug.
I got my mug my junior year of college while visiting with my aunt, Tammy, and her husband, Tom, who were then living in New Jersey. For my 21st birthday present, I got to go stay with them and we spent time in New York City doing all kinds of awesome things (Um, Aida? On Broadway?! Hello, Wonderful!). One random stop we made, however, was in some little Starbucks in the middle of I don't know where in NYC, and I picked up this mug. Tammy got it for me as a little extra present, even though I was not a coffee drinker at the time. For years it only saw use for water (and occasionally for tea or hot chocolate). I loved it!
For various reasons (OK, one - my complexion), I don't wear yellow. That doesn't mean that I don't like the color, though, so I sometimes go looking for ways to incorporate it in my world. This mug became my sunshine and honestly, there have been days when drinking from a yellow cup was enough to make me smile. It didn't hurt that I also love red, and the big poppy flowers on the thing just worked for me.
All was well until one fateful morning in 2005 (or possibly 2006) when I was cruising down the hallway of Andrews Hall (where almost all English classes are taught at UNL) and I dropped my mug on the hard tile floor, chipping the bottom of it. Ugh. I could have cried right there. But fortunately I didn't break-break it. It really was just a chip. & I quickly learned that if I didn't submerge it when I washed it, everything was fine. This arrangement went on for years. Seven years (or possibly six), actually.
I am a huge water nut, and I always like to have some with me when I teach, so this mug went with me right after grad school to my first job teaching English at Central Community College. It then went with me when I switched to teaching 7-12 English in Palmer, NE in 2008. And in 2010, it started going back to CCC when I began teaching as an adjunct, one night class per semester.
Until just this summer, I've always used the mug as a sort of joke with my students. By way of introducing myself, I usually asked them early on in a course what they think I had in it. Of course most guessed coffee. But I used to hate coffee, so I would smile and assure them that nope, just water (Gee, I am so funny, aren't I?). Well, now that I have two small kiddos, quite frankly, coffee has become one of my best friends, so yes, this week, as I began teaching my first summer class of the year, I poured coffee in my mug (and took another one of water).
And this is precisely where my problem arose. My beloved Keurig doesn't fit my travel mug, so I have had to brew my coffee into an actual coffee cup and then dump it in Yellow/Poppy. After three days of doing this, I noticed tonight that there is now condensation inside on the paper lining of the mug's upper rim. Apparently there were cracks there that my less-than-graceful-coffee-pouring found that I used to miss when just pouring water in it.
I really don't need anything to start growing on it, so now I'm afraid I have to say goodbye. I can't believe I am this attached to silly mug from Starbucks, but I went to toss it in the trash tonight and realized that first I had to memorialize it. So here you have it - my Yellow/Poppy Lament.
Now. Where to find a replacement? Carrying my Dixie travel/hot cup thingies just won't cut it for long!
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