…of my life.

The half that works outside of the home.

The part that utilizes both what I know as a writer and a teacher.

So, over the sweltering summer (okay it’s been cold for most of June, but I love that, I won’t complain for anything about that…) I’ve been enjoying my kids and their activities and not having to monitor backpacks, school stuff, anything that seems to bring stress.

But, in my crazy enjoyment of life and all it entails, I had to begin to prepare for one of the workshops I’m doing at the school where I consult.

Seems easy enough. But, carving out professional time in my private, non-babysitter, life has been harder than I thought it would be.

So, sixteen hours into the major planning of the workshop (with many hours beforehand that yeilded ingredients but no concrete stuff until now) I’m ready to go and hopefully things will go well…

I’ll let you know…

I’m thinking of you all, hope everyone’s good and I’ll be back with a good post (relatively speaking of course) soon. 

Yes, and Fat Friday, it haunts me daily and I have not chickened out I’ve just been buried in writing materials.

Thanks for hanging in.

So, how many of you actually write down passwords and usernames for all the millions of sites and services that require them in your life?

Now, don’t fib.

Am I the only one who needs a hint as to this username or that password everytime I’m prompted to put one in?

I don’t balance a check book in a traditional fashion so why would one expect that I might keep track of passwords, etc. like normal people?

All I need is a teeny clue, like…

Username____ (could be your email address dumbass)

Password____(nine characters with at least one letter, slacker)

I don’t know. If I don’t write any of it down, then no one can steal it by conventional means (ie. sneaking into my home through a window and rifling through my neatly stored documents to find the secret codes that unlock the innards of my life).

I don’t even write down most phone numbers. I memorize them by the patterns they make on the keypad.

Oh well, this way if I kick the bucket any time soon, my living relatives can remember me as they pull their hair strand, by strand from their heads as they try to piece together the bits of my life.

That could be fun, no?

So, how do you handle things like this?  Are you a thorough list-maker extraordinaire or lazy memorizer who spends more time trying to unlock her own codes that it would take to write them down in the first place?

DSC01601, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

…To be young means
To be all on edge, to be held waiting in
A packed lounge for a Personal Call
From Long Distance, for the low voice that
Defines one’s future. The fears we know
Are of not knowing…

–WH Auden–The Age of Anxiety

So, my children’s lives, filled with fun activities, at times don’t feel so fun to them. But good lessons are learned in the center of angst–"How will I know when I swim?" "Will I make it to the end?" "Will I ever stop shivering from this cold?"

How else does a person learn that there is always, always an end to anxiety–at least a lessening of it if you have some control–even a little bit over your existence.

The key is forging a life that you create yourself, that even when its impacted by things out of your control, there is a kernel of strength buried inside.

And sometimes, you must be forced to learn the lesson…swim the race, finish what you started. And then we can talk.

This seems like such an easy task–interacting with educated people who have the same goals and love kids and the work they do. But, as I plan the summer workshops I’ll do with a group of teachers I keep getting stuck.

It’s not that I don’t have the content at my fingertips. Planning writing workshops, making sure that all aspects of grammar  and writing conventions are addressed in the course of actually allowing kids to write is not the problem.

But on paper, it’s flat and lifeless. The art of teaching writing is in bringing content that’s so easily laid out in black in white to life with and for the kids.

To make writing meaningful, so that all the stuff that kids are tested on actually matters to them in their lives requires the intangible stuff. Teachers have to find a way to love what they’re doing even if they don’t. Writing isn’t easy for adults. Staring at the blank sheet or monitor can be intimidating for anyone. How do I teach adults to love writing, themselves, to share their writing life with the students as part of the process?

Well, part of the solution is to engage the teachers in writing. I know these people, but most of the work I’ve done with them so far has revolved around reading instruction with only spurts dedicated to writing. I have no idea if any or all of them write for pleasure, hate writing, see it as a useful tool to be mastered and tracked with check lists, if they are poets or can’t get enough time to write nonfiction, or if the extent of what they compose can be boiled down to lesson plans. And believe it or not, that matters in terms of instructing others.

So, as I help them shape instruction for the students–I’ll have to find a way to sell the idea that they need to write, to model real writing, their writing, and that in the end the students will find magic in the process and maybe they will too (maybe they already do).

I’m not sure I’m that good.

But, I think I can do it. 

And so we’ll see.

DSC01557, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

What are these things you wonder. Your gut tells you they’re something a bit grotesque though your eyes can’t say why that’s so, you can just feel it as you recoil from your screen.

And your instincts are right. These winged objects are actually the "SuperLite Adhesive Bra" I wore to a formal dinner the other night.

I bought three different items to experiment with that night because as any girl over the age of fifteen knows (okay, not the free-wheeling braless ones), finding a strapless bra that works is as elusive as that pot of gold at the end of some crappy magic rainbow.

So, I bought this gem of a bra, another bra that amounts to nothing more than paper with glue on the back and the old fashioned kind that never, ever stays up, but I couldn’t quite trust that this baby would do the trick. Let me tell you why.

This bad-boy is essentially a set of separated bra cups with glue on the back. The package claims that not only will these things stick to your skin, though somehow not rip it off upon removal, you can create varying degrees of cleavage to suit your needs. What’s not enticing about all that?

It seemed like it could be possible, but yet, how could this thing really work.

I imagined the adhesive leeching into my skin and blood stream sending the China manufactured glue toxiins right to my already lesioned brain. Or worse, images of one cup or the other snapping off and wiggling out from under my dress, causually sprawling itself on the ground at my feet. I visualized how I would step over the bra cup, snickering that I can’t fathom how a bra cup could simply materialize out of thin air.

I was prepared to try all three bras, knowing the process would put me in a full sweat by the time I actually left the house to go have dinner with a bunch of people who I barely know, am not sure how many I like and am damn sure everyone one of them is in fantastic shape and the last thing they’re worried about is how to stuff their perfect boobs into a adhesive bra.

So. There I was inspecting the apparatus, the half-bra and I have to say the damn thing worked. No slippage, no nipple issues, not even any trouble getting the things off. Other than it looked ridiculous as my boob stretched in all sorts of odd directions as the glue released.

Over all, I have to say as a feminine product goes, this is a can’t miss and I suggest it for anyone who has to do anything that requires straplessness.

april 4 402, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

So, I’ve mentioned my couch fetish before. The fact that the perfect couch–and the definition of that is wide and deep for me–stops me in my tracks, makes me consider where yet another one might fit into my life and house is no secret. So, due to the fact that my planned post has been erased by word press three times, I’m putting it on hold and leaping over to this…

Guess which couch in my house goes with this material.

Yeah, I know you have no clue what my couch inventory includes, but go ahead guess. Is this the material that wraps around a vintage couch, modern one, living room, dining room (yes every dining room needs a place where weary eaters can rest between courses) basement? Is it on a Queen Anne, overstuffed, dainty victorian???

DSC01494, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

Seriously.
There’s NOTHING on TV but foolish political commentators who make me sick to my stomach, though I feel like I have to watch just so I know what’s out there in the world.

And, then there’s this.

Kids doing something fun on a beautiful day.

Yes, I know it looks like the toddler department of Future-Yuppies-R-Us. But, it’s still cute.

DSC01554, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

Since I have zero amount of minutes in which to blog during daylight hours, I will have to take this night-time to tell you I’m still fat. In case you were curious.

I can’t even weigh myself this week.

The kids are out of school and I have exactly no time to exercise or do anything else other than be with the kids.

Not that I’m complaining.

I’m just saying it’s not a good idea to weigh oneself in this situation.

So, I’m wrangling some babysitting into order so I can at least pretend to be slimming fast, again.

I will do this. I will.

My friend Nicole buried her baby yesterday. Little Tai lived for 18 hours before dying.

Nine months ago Nicole called to say she was going to have a third child. I immediately made fun of her, cursed her with triplets as she was going to have the third child I always wanted, but she said she never did.

Soon after that, Nicole and her husband learned Tai had trisomy-13. Most babies with this genetic condition miscarry, come into the world still-born, or die upon birth.

I had just published an article on families who have children with disabilities and one of those profiles included a family with a child–a miracle child, really–with trisomy-13. I offered Nicole the article and to put her in touch with the family I wrote about. She said she’d read the article, but she didn’t need to talk to anyone, her voice was light, "Everything will be all right, I just want to spend as much time with her as possible, enjoy the pregnancy…"

Our wider circle of friends discussed Nicole’s calm attitude.

"She’s in denial."

"She’s going to have a nervous breakdown."

"Not even Nicole can pretend THIS isn’t a problem."

"Yeah, this is going to hit her hard."

"Yeah…"

But then it hits us, as it always does, Nicole is not like us. Everything from small details of life to the big stuff, she breezes through. If not for knowing her for 16 years, I’d think she was going to end up in the looney bin for all she seemed to struggle with the news her daughter’s brain was not compatable with life.

I spoke to her the day she left the hospital and her baby behind. She talked for twenty minutes straight, detailed each and every moment she spent with Tai for 18 hours. Every precious breath, poop, and cuddle is forever etched in Nicole’s heart, seeing and feeling the good in the situation.

Not that she hasn’t cried. She couldn’t even remember how long the funeral lasted or exactly what was said, but she said a few words, telling everyone how much she learned from her little fighter.

And as I spoke to her, after hordes of people left her home nine hours after the funeral, Nicole sighed.

"Well, I’ll go to the grave-site tomorrow, make sure everything’s okay, you know, just to be sure…"

I wanted to ask what she meant, that I didn’t know, but she’d already gone ahead with her end of the converstation, planning, thinking, making things all right just by saying they were.

And I realized, tearing up on my end of the line, that she would, indeed, be all right.

DSC01355, originally uploaded by kathieshoop.

Jake Shoop has yet to attend a Pirate game they haven’t won. They ought to put him on the roster right now. You know, slot him as a mini ball-boy or let him deliver cokes to thirsty players. They can’t afford to toy with such a force. Yet…they don’t seem to notice.

Hahaha. What a beautiful day for a game, yesterday was. Hopefully they win today. Jake won’t be there, though. So, I plucked a hair from his head and blew it into the wind, knowing it’ll settle in just the right spot, right behind homeplate, bringing good luck. I kid, I kid. Still, the Pirates should be made aware of things like this.