walt whitman said what now?

One of the classes I am taking at the university is all about literature written mostly by dead white guys. There are some Chinese fellows in there and this semester there are even some African writers thrown in. But mostly it's white guys like Galileo and Locke. Hobbes and Thoreau. Goethe and Rousseau. Whitman. Who doesn't know Walt Whitman?? Someone has determined these writers to be awesome enough to have their writings compiled in a text book and studied by many many many a poor fool.

I pity the fool.

Actually, I seriously love this class and that is no word of a sarcastic lie. And, really, who am I to decide who is awesome enough to be studied billions of years later? I am thinking, though, that the criteria for being awesome is being confusing and really hard to understand, even though your native tongue is the same as mine.

Whatever, this is the class and I have to take it and I am okay with it. Even though it seriously cuts into my reading for pleasure time. Again, I love the class. I really love it.

I really do....

This week, we did a plethora of readings commonly referred to as poetry. I am super awesome at poetry. Poetry is my my jam.

Let me show you...

I will speak to you some poetry and whilst doing so I will offer up my interpretation of said poetry. My interpretation will be in italics. Here we go...

Two together!
Wind blows south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all the time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

Shoot, I forgot to make a grocery list for the way home. And I can't remember what I was planning for dinner.

Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up seas winds along Paumanok's shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Toilet paper!! I keep forgetting to buy some toilet paper. Dang it. Why do we go through toilet paper so fast? I do believe it is unreasonably fast...

Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
Following you my brother.

I'm hungry. I wish I had a banana with me. I sure do love bananas....

Low hangs the moon, it rose late,
It is lagging -- O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

I am so tired, I can't believe my life right now. Kids, so many kids, and all needing to be somewhere. It is making me tired.....Reallllll tireddddddd....

O night! I do not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Speaking of love...I feel like I haven't seen mine in forever. Oooooh, we should go to a movie. I love the movies.....I wonder what's playing right now....

Death, death, death, death, death.
Which I do not forget,

That was a lot of deaths. 1-2-3-4-5 deaths, good grief....

That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside,
The sea whisper'd me.

Hmmmm, I do believe I just read a 20 page poem. I do believe I have no clue what just happened here. I am awesome at this book learning stuff. Banana. I reeeeeally want a banana. Right now. Where can I get a banana from?

And that, my friends, is how Catherine Dabels does poetry. I should do really well on the paper associated with that poem......

No?

things i learned at university, part 2. and my birthday month

Okay, all right. Okay, all right. Okay, here we go...

It's October!! I know, I know. October happens every year. But..... it isn't every year that I turn 40!!!

FORTY!!

In 9 days I will be FORTY years old. I simply can not believe it. I remember when 40 was old. In the olden days. My olden days. When 40 was old.

I know, I know, I don't look a day over 26. You're so kind.

Stop it!

I had so many plans for my life that included a due date of 40. Not all of them happened. It's okay.

It's gonna have to be, isn't it?

I don't think I'll spend too much time on this blog post since it's making me ponder my life and I don't really think I want to do that quite yet. It does make me feel a little anxious though thinking about all the things I still want to do and have. Or maybe that's just me coming off anxiety meds, which, by the way, turned me into a homicidal, apathetic maniac for about 10 days. I'm good now, though.

That's a different post entirely.

So, my 40's should include things I've never had before. Like a career. And maybe a few less kids. And maybe even a grandchild if Cicely follows the same road I did.

HOLY CRAP!!! Did I just say grand kids?? Whoaaaaaaa nelly.....this post is done. There are not enough anxiety drugs in the world to process that.

I wasn't even thinking about grand kids when I started this stupid post.

Talking about stupid, let's talk about university and some of the things I witness while I'm there. The other day I went to class. It was paper handing in day. So I handed in my paper and took a seat. Then a line of students formed to hand in their papers. A girl got to the front of the line, looked at the prof in the eyes and said this, "Do you have a stapler?"

Now, maybe it's just me and my abrasive personality (the man told me once that I have an abrasive personality. Nice) but "do you have a stapler?" Really?? Did you just ask the professoress if she was carrying a stapler around the university on her VERY OWN person?

I was agog. I was aghast. Could Marius be in love at last?

Whoa, I just went into Les Mis mode there for sec. Excuse me, I apologize.

Maybe my brother Paul can weigh in on this issue, since he is a university professor and probably sees all kinds of stupid on a regular basis. The issue is this: how ridiculous is it that a student would bring a paper to class NOT ALREADY FASTENED?

It's not just me, right? Surely this isn't just me.....

So, while I was giving my own head a shake because it's either that or smack some poor young adult for being generally not bright, the professoress began a lecture on why it is not her responsibility to provide the fasteners for our papers. She may have said things like "this is a 500 level course" and "it might be good practice for you to carry your own staplers" and "at some point you need to think about this stuff for yourselves. At home. Where your stapler is" and "how is it that your paper is not already stapled?"

All the things I was thinking as I was shaking my head. I felt closer to her in that moment.

Anyway, while she ranted away something happened. Something I, to this day, still can not believe. A young man reached the front of the line and when the professoress took a breath he chose that precise moment in time to ask a question.

"Excuse me, do you have a stapler?"

**this is a true story. The events of this story have not been altered in any way. And no, the professoress did not murder this brain dead child. And against every fibre of my being, neither did I.

gemma

Do you wanna know how many unfinished blog posts I have kicking around in my drafts from the last two weeks? Seven.

There are 7 unfinished blog posts kicking around in my drafts. I blame my phone. And my scattered, anxiety ridden thoughts. When I have a free minute between classes or while waiting to pick someone up I can't just sit and ponder life. I must be doing something, staying busy. The key to life is to never stop moving. You know?? So I start writing. And I write and I write and I write. Then it gets put on hold from all the pesky teaching I must endure. Or the driving.

I drive a lot.

By the time I get back to it I am over it. I don't care anymore. I have already moved on. I set a goal this week to finish one blog post.

Nothing like setting goals unreachably high, I always say. And why isn't unreachably a word?

Do you watch Sons of Anarchy? If you answered no, don't start. Or do start if you are into awesome. But don't start if you aren't into total addiction and the neglect of every good thing in your life, including sleep. If you do watch it then you will recognize the name of this post as the name of the matriarch of that most dysfunctional, yet completely awesome, biker gang.

Gemma.

Gemma is undeniably ferocious. She will not be messed with. She will rip your heart out and eat it for dinner if she thinks you are in her way. I love Gemma, she gets stuff done. I love her until she messes with something I don't want her to mess with then I want to hurt her. Gemma causes me much emotional distress.

So, naturally, I named my anxiety disorder Gemma. I did this because I believe in naming things. It makes them easier to refer to. It gives them life.

And anything as relentless as an anxiety disorder deserves a name. Am I right? You know I'm right.

For its name, I choose Gemma. Everyone now, go name your disorders!

Gemma was doing great. For almost a year I had her under control. She flamed up on occasion but I'd just tell her to back the heck off, take a few deep breaths, inhale some Clary Sage and she would retreat. Then, all of a sudden, a couple months ago, she stopped retreating. She gnaws at my insides trying to get out. She makes my heart race, my bowls churn. She takes my breath away.

Gemma, stop. I can't breathe. Please, back off.

I tried ignoring her, you know, not looking her in eye. I put her off and put her off until one day I said to the man, "I don't think my anxiety pills are working very well anymore."

And he gave me that chin tucked in, eyebrows raised, know it all look and said, "You think?"

Yeah, I think....

To my doctor I went. I hate this part. So badly do I want everything to just run as it's supposed to run. I told her as much.

"That's how we'd all like life to work, dear. Some of us just get to run on different operating systems. That's all."

She's right. Or maybe she's not. Who knows anymore. All I know is that sometimes I can't breathe and the name "they've" given it is anxiety. The name I give it is Gemma. But you know, sometimes I wonder if I'm not just making this stuff up. Did I make Gemma up? Did I create her in my life to add drama and chaos? There are days that are so good I have to wonder....

And then there are the days when I know, for a certainty, that Gemma is there, inside me, wreaking havoc on my thoughts and my actions, making me doubt my own sanity.

So, my doctor has decided that the meds I was on have lost their potency in my soul and we should try new ones. I hate the very idea of this. It means detoxing and trying something new. It means withdrawal. It means the unknown. She's cool beans about it and thinks I should be too.

But, if anyone knows me well then they know that I am cool beans about nothing.

And for that, I blame Gemma.

premenstrual potato salad

So, the other night I went to a ladies only party for our church. Our church never ever partys and so when it does, gosh darnit, I will not miss it. I signed up to bring a salad and whilst perusing the grocery store trying to decide upon a salad that tickled my fancy I wondered why it was proving so difficult.

I have pms, I thought to myself. What I wanted was chocolate.

So I did the only logical thing. I googled Snickers salad. I had that once. And by george, I would have it again.

This is the ingredient list for said Snickers salad:
apples
snickers bars
cool whip
cream cheese
marshmallow creme

Now, if this doesn't scream salad, I do not know what does. Naturally, it only costs $25 to make this salad. And if you ask me, this amount of money on one salad is never worth it. Unless you need to eat salad. And that salad has to have Snickers bars in it.

The apples negate the marshmallow creme. I read that somewhere.

Okay, so I go home and whip together this vision of health and happiness. A snickers for you, a snickers for me. And on and on we go.

While at the party we played a game called  See How Many Women You Can Cram At An Outdoor Table During A Wind Storm.

Since I have PMS, I was sweaty and therefore enjoyed the slight breeze through my burgundy mane.

Yes, my hair is burgundy.

There was a woman at the table, 2 people away from me, eating away. When all of a sudden she says, "This is the most delicious potato salad I have ever had."

I looked over to see her eating the salad I brought and a giggle escaped me.

"Umm, there are no potatoes in that salad."

She peered down at her food, "huh? Well what is it then?"

"Sugar. And a couple apples." I said.

"Well, no wonder it is so delicious!"

And that, my friends, is how you make potato salad for the premenstrual and most certainly the menopausal.

Her, not me. Or maybe me too. Who's to know? And really, who cares when you can eat Snickers bars in your salad...

so as it turns out, people are good

Allow me to tell you a little story. This story will rock your world. And if it doesn't then just know that it rocked mine and that should suffice.

This is a story about loss, about prayer, about letting go and about moving on. This is a story you can tell your kids to show them that they can be good people who do good things, right things, when faced with the opportunity to do the opposite. Tell them this story as a way of teaching them integrity, that they can choose the right and live knowing that they have. This is the kind of story you start with "Now listen to what happened to a friend of mine..." And then watch their faces closely as they hear the ending. It'll be worth it, I promise.

Now, let's see, where do I start?

Yes, I know, it was a Tuesday. It was last Tuesday, in fact, and I sent the man a text that said "Please bring home $1000 cash tonight to pay for football and first aid training."

The man responded with a "K".

A few hours later I got a phone call. From the man. He told me he'd gone to the bank and taken out $1000. And then he'd gone to the tool store. And then he went to the convenience store. And then he noticed his wallet was missing. He lost his wallet.

He lost his wallet.

It was like someone kicked me in the gut. My husband lost his wallet. His wallet had $1000 cash in it. I didn't know what to say.

What can you say? What is there to do? He had already retraced his steps. He scoured both parking lots. He grilled cashiers, made phone calls. He did everything he could.

I went to the bank and withdrew another $1000 to pay for football and first aid. What a blow.

What a blow.

I said a prayer. All I asked for was comfort. All I wanted was to not have to think about it. It was making me ill.

Later that night we talked about it to death. The man was convinced the cashier at the store had taken it. I was convinced it fell out of his pocket in the parking lot and someone had found it and kept it. He was sure it was a drug addict, I was hoping it was a flood victim who thought it was manna from heaven. It didn't matter who found it, the money was gone. What could we do but move on?

The next day he called the tool store to see if he could watch their security footage, which they agreed to but had to go through a third party security company. After the store contacted the security company they contacted the man and told him this "the camera shows you paying for your items, putting the wallet in your left pocket and patting it. Did we still want to see it ourselves?"

No. We both knew the left pocket and the patting was Darcy to a T. It's what he does with his wallet every. single. time. We knew she wasn't making it up.

We knew the money was gone. It was hard to let go. So I said another prayer. This time I asked for comfort again, and what the heck, some integrity. I asked that whoever found the wallet would find the courage to mail it back.

What else did I have to lose at this point? Might as well ask for the stars. So I asked. And then I stopped thinking about it.

 I was moving on.

Until tonight. I was lying on my bed watching Netflix, the man was on driving duty. I was thinking about a book I had ordered online but hadn't received yet. I needed to go check the mail.

I went to the mailbox and low and behold, there was my book. But there was also something on top of it. A large package. But it had Darcy's name on it. I put it aside begrudgingly, it wasn't mine to open. Sometimes I am the patient wife.

And sometimes I am not.

I opened it.



The letter says, " Dear Mr. Dabels,

I found your wallet lying on the ground outside of Busy Bee Tools on August 20th. My initial intent was to leave it with the store staff but when I found that it contained a significant amount of money I decided to hold on to it. I admit the temptation to just keep the money was huge and I kept changing my mind as to what I should do. In the end I decided to do the right thing and return it to you.

I apologize for the inconvenience my indecision and procrastination has no doubt caused you. I hope this finds you well."

It was signed.

There are no words to describe my gratitude. This letter and the contents of this package speak for themselves, I believe.

People are good. As hard as it can be sometimes, people try, and they succeed at goodness. And also? Remember that people are good, and prayers get answered and they even sometimes get answered exactly the way you want them to.

Do me a favour? Pay something forward on behalf of the person who sent all this money back.

Please.

And thank you.

jumping jacks are for chumps

At 7:15 this the morning, the children were eating Nutella on toast, whole wheat toast no less, because we're healthy like that. Holden is complaining of being too cold. He is tired and mad that he has to be up so blinkin' early during summer holidays. Whatever, kid. This is my week. I have lived for this week. You will go to camp and I will bask gloriously in your absence, we all have our burdens to bear.

Holden: I am freezing cold!!!

Me: Why don't you do some jumping jacks and warm up?

Stunned looks all around.

Amelia: Jumping jacks are for chumps.

ChitChat: I saw you doing jumping jacks yesterday.

Amelia, all sassy-like: No you didn't, you liar.

Me: Jack does jumping jacks every night at football practice.

Amelia: Jack is a chump.

***************************************
So the kids are in camp all week, I may have mentioned something to that effect. And if not, let me tell you. All my kids are gone all day every day this week. There are no words to explain what this feels like in my soul. As soon as I drop that last three off this weird sound escapes my body as I walk to the truck. It sounds a little something like,

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I'm sure it can be heard in all corners of the kingdom. 

I won't bother explaining to you how amazing and fantastic and super and amazing it is to not have to listen to bickering or x-box begging all day everyday. Or how much easier it is to run to the store without kids tagging along. 

The only problem with weeks like this is that they go by so quickly. Sad face.

Two more weeks until school starts. Two. More. Weeks. Oh glory day.

Can I have my Bad Mom plaque now, please? I already know where I'm going to hang it.

*********************************************

Soooooooo, I'm probably watching Sharknado while I write this post. Maybe. Probably. Okay, no I'm not. I am totally not watching Sharknado as I type this.

Ian Ziering is the worst actor of all time. And his name is Fin in this movie. Funny, no? And totally brilliant. And Tara Reid? Need I say more?

Wait....I said I wasn't watching it. Yeah, let's stick with that. Way less embarrassing.

I do believe Pride and Prejudice is up next.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”  Man, I love that movie.

Oh, hold up!!!! Ian Ziering just chainsawed his way out of a shark that ate him in one bite. And the bimbo was with him and now she is dead. Oh, wait, no she's not. Phew, what a relief, now they can live happily ever after. Ewww gross, Tara Reid just wiped shark guts off Ian's face and kissed him. And now the bimbo loves Ian's son??? Huh?

Okay, it's over. I will move on to something somewhat more productive now. 

*************************

Amelia's hair has been in french braids for the last two days while she's been at swim camp. This morning we took them out and brushed out her long, golden, curly mane. 

Me: Your hair looks gorgeous, lovey.

Amelia, staring at herself in the mirror: I know, it looks amazing with my lips.

*******************************

G'day.

football mom

You can now add me to the ranks of "football mom". It is a deeply honoured title, one riddled with tradition and pride. Its prestige can't be topped. Its rewards grand. Its investment bottomless.

Why, it's an honour just to be nominated. But to be the winner of such a life altering highlight? There are no words...

Sometimes, people tell me it's hard to tell if I'm being sarcastic or not. 

What about now? Am I being sarcastic now?

Who, moi? Never. 

So what does a football mom do? Well, four nights a week (carpool? what's a carpool?? someone teach the child how to get phone numbers so this football mom can set up a carpool already!!! geesh) she drives her child to a field where there are many many other children dressed like giant metal heads on toothpicks, and she proceeds to play a rousing game of Candy Crush or read a book, if she isn't already dead tired blind from the day. 

She could, if she felt so inclined, go sit with some of the other parents who have obviously done this before and brought chairs with them. But this football mom? No, she has to stay in her vehicle because she has no chair. 

And probably no bra on either. 

This particular football mom is shameful. She would apologize if she wasn't so blasted tired. This football mom is tired. She isn't sure where these kids get their energy from. If she was, she'd rob them blind without remorse. 

And on average, one giant metal head on a toothpick throws up at least twice per two-hour practice.

So, the diehard football moms sit on chairs, with blankets and coffee, while this rookie football mom writes on her hand with a pen she found under the seat, "remember chair".

Remembering is hard. Especially after you have washed your hands for the 423rd time in one day. 

Football moms hear things being yelled to their sons, and a few daughters, that make her mama bear hairs stand up on her mama bear neck. Things like "be more aggressive!!" and "don't be lazy!!"

I mean, I'm trying to teach my son to be loving and kind. Not a terrorizing metal head on a toothpick who likes to hit and knock over other top-heavy giant metal heads on toothpicks. And if anyone gets to tell the child to be less lazy it's me!

Youknowwhatimean?

Be. Aggressive! 

Got. To be aggressive!

A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.

Aggressive. 

Aggressive. 

Be. 

Be. 

Aggressive!!

Now excuse me, this football has to go locate some pom poms. 

P.S. How come the other moms aren't taking pictures? Clearly I am the only one taking this seriously.