There is one seven year old boy in my class who reminds me of Walter Matthau. And for those of you who need a little refresher, this is Walter:

Please note that this particular child doesn’t dress like a lawyer from the 70’s- but his facial expressions are dead on. In short- this child looks miserable. Every morning my Mini- Walter comes grumbling into school. Every morning I say good morning to him and he grumps off to his desk. Every afternoon I ask him how his recess was and he mumbles something about “there’s not any fun things to do around here”. At the end of every school day I see him off with a smile and he shows me something I know he feels is a smile but looks more like a grimace. And every night I drive home wondering what he’s thinking, if he’s getting what he needs when he’s at school.

Today the children filled out an “About Me” page. We had a new student join the class and I thought it would be a fun activity for them to do- fill out the sheet on likes/dislikes, what they wanted to be when they grew up and favourite colors. The students worked harder and were more thoughtful in answering their questions than I had anticipated. My min-Walter handed me his at the end of the day and I put it on my desk so I could help do up winter coats.

After the hallways cleared and the silence settled in, I grabbed the completed sheets to put up on the bulletin board. I giggled as I read how the children disliked ’spinatche’ and wanted to be ‘waitrs’ and ‘azztrotnots’ when they grew up. But my smile turned into a few hot tears as I stapled my Mini Walters sheet to the wall. He had listed his dislikes as ‘murnings’ and ‘brockolee’, but under his likes he only had one- my name.

I drove home tonight proud of myself and feeling far more confident in my teaching abilities than I ever have.

It’s funny what 8 letters written by a 7 year old can do to a girl.

Remember when I asked for questions to answer? I’m answering. Slowly. Because I’m lazy I don’t want to cause the internet to explode my answering them all at once. I get great joy of going through and reading them (finding out later that they’ve entered my subconscious and have given me ideas of posts that I thought were originally my own- Maggie, I’m thinking of you and your question about what I would like to ‘unknow‘, which I thought was my own brilliant idea. How wrong I was.).

Today’s question is from AP. I really enjoyed this question because it’s one that I would ask and it appeals to the side of me that likes to review all my beautiful failures that have led me to my life as school marm and martini guzzler.

“If there was one moment/situation in your life you could change- what would it be and why?*** AND you cannot say “there’s nothing I regret or would change”. There is always one moment/situation we had wished would’ve turned out differently. “

I love this because I’m in the lowly ranks who really do believe in regrets. So to pick just one for me, would be impossible. It would be like trying to chose a favourite hair follicle. Or just one man to have sex with from LOST. There’s just too many to chose from. I- of course, believe in learning from the regrets of my past but I’m happier having had made them than not. I’m happier having fallen, having got my hands dirty. I’m happier knowing that I did the ugly cry at 3am over a guy who wasn’t worth it, and of letting go of the guy who was. Of failing the test, saying goodbye when I wanted to stay, of choosing the “cool crowd” over my own crowd. I’m happier having screwed up on the job, said the comment about sexual education to the dean of my university on graduation day, passed up an outdoor James Taylor concert in Rome. I’m better for listening to bad advice, letting a friendship woven through the years fall apart in my hands, of giving up on my father.

All these errors in judgment, these mistakes- some calculated by my misguided brain, others the result of spontaneous rage or feelings of jealously, have changed me. Of course, each of them break my fucking heart but they make me better. I will never let take my stable parent for granted. I will never wear a scrunchie as part of ‘formal wear’. I will never again say no to James Taylor.

I’ve quibbled over this notion with friends- and we’ve maintained the peace by deciding that what I call a ‘regret’ others may call a ‘lesson learned’. And then I call them a moron. Just kidding. Seriously. Don’t send me hate mail for that, I don’t have time to answer it right now.

My point is that my regrets line the pockets of my soul. My collection of failures are as unique as my fingerprint. I own each of them. They are apart of what makes me me and yet I can still say that I would go back and change each of them. I would love to have aced the interview, took a chance on the guy, not dabbled in chugging sambuca. But I can’t change what happened, so I live with it. I sit with each regret and wonder ‘what if?’. I run it through my memory, re-living each error- keeping it fresh, so I can make sure I don’t make the same mistakes again. I do this because I’m better for remembering my mistakes, my regrets- I’d much rather make a new mistake, than repeat an old one. I do this because organizing my failures in dusty corners of my brain doesn’t cause my pain, or leave me sad. I do this because it emboldens me to make better choices, to try harder, to be better. I do this because I own my regrets. They don’t own me.

I wanted to be clever and tie all this together through artfully worded segues and mindful wordplay, but alas it is of late hour and my brain is not computing.

I’m talking funny. I can feel it. The reason for this is the following:

Cramming in the ’speare + little sleep + plus frantic excitement over OBAMA’s current run + spending everyday with an army of children who still need to be reminded that scratching their butts with both hands for an extended period of time while in public is considered rude.

So without further delay, we are doing “What I learned in the last seven days” prison rules style again. Bring on the bullets! And I swear on my favourite coat (it’s delicious- cream and chocolate brown with a hot pink satin lining), I plan on writing a real post soon. Because I need to discuss many things in depth- like my new haircut. And my upcoming trip to VEGAS. And OBAMA!

- I learned that just because Matthew Fox is in a movie doesn’t mean the movie is going to a five star event. And as much as I love Jack, I’m pretty sure Sawyer would have done a better job than Dr. Shepard did in this movie. Seriously.

- “Sometimes I wish I said all the things I think I’ve already said”. I learned that being able to say that to your friend and knowing that she understands what you are saying… well, that’s an awfully nice feeling.

- I learned that some people will be remembered for creating a great work of art. For being a style icon. For being a good mother, a kind daughter, a conscientious citizen of humanity. I will be remembered as the person who sent out a stack of overdue Christmas cards in February.

- I learned that just seeing THIS will make me scream out loud. Like an 11 year old girl in the front row of a Hannah Montana concert.

- I learned I’m almost over THE WALL. THE WALL = the mountain of planning, preparing and weeping done late at night at the school trying to incorporate curriculum into fun stuff like dance contests and fire walking. THE WALL has prevented me from having an active social life and is directly responsible for my current hate on for google reader.

- I learned that true excitement can be had when finding a bin of MAGNETS! Just in time for my MAGNET UNIT!

- Speaking of google reader and a mountain of unread posts- Egan asked me if I felt the least bit guilty putting out new posts while not reading other blogs. First of all, I am reading them, or trying to read them all, I’m just not catching up as fast as they are coming out (let’s take a minute and give THE WALL a dirty look for this). As for feeling guilty, I actually don’t. “Guilty” isn’t the right word. It implies that it’s owed and I don’t think that’s the case- whether I’m talking about me commenting somewhere or someone commenting here. That’s part of the reason I like this forum for writing- comments aren’t expected. I think for me, the feeling that hits it more accurately, is simply that I miss it. Though I’m working on catching up, I miss hearing about true Hope, or jerks who don’t want cheap couches or the wedding plans of Anne, Jess or AM. I miss being the first one to read the genius that lays in each line typed here. Or here. Or here. Or here. Or any of the other wonderful sites that I’ve commented on in the past. So I guess I learned that I miss commenting.

- I learned that ringworm may be bad, but pink eye is just as inconvenient.

- I learned that I cannot spell “inconvenient” correctly without the help of spell check.

- I learned that it’s impossible for me to listen to “Basement Apartment” by Sarah Harmer without singing along. It’s also impossible for me to eat only one piece of popcorn.

- I learned that a new haircut can give you a new perspective.

- I learned that a new perspective can stop you from wishing the children who smeared dog shit on your car windshield on Saturday night die a long and painful death (involving the swallowing of rusty razor blades and then using their bloated bodies as trampolines) and instead rejoice in the fact that your local car wash is open late on Sundays.

- I learned that I’m a better person than what I thought I was and sometimes I’m far more horrible than I imagine (if you doubt my “horribleness” perhaps re-read the comment above involving children, razor blades and trampolines)

Have a good week universe. And if you find you are hitting THE WALL, take the advice I learned (from a fat kid who loves Hershey’s kisses) that when you are tired of saying your complaints, you should just sing them. Because “that makes you sound silly and then you laugh”.

There are things I pride myself on knowing- the secret ingredient to a family cookie recipe (from a family I’m not technically a part of but trusted as much as). What secrets are worth keeping. How to correctly feed and saddle a horse. The number of minutes I can teach math before 15 children begin to plan a mutiny. Detecting when an “I’m fine” means anything but that. My sevens multiplication table. How long I can drink milk past it’s expiry date before I get ill. When to quit and when to try harder.

And there are certain things I would give my life’s treasure to unknow. Things, that for whatever reason- through my own intentional doing, through an unintentional accident, or the will/wish of someone else- I now know, and wish to heaven and back again that I didn’t. Because they are either a) gross b) hurtful c) wildly inappropriate or d) all of the above.

Here’s a few that are currently on my list:

1. There was a pinworm outbreak in the school recently. And pinworms can lay eggs in your underwear. (Sorry. But if I have to know that, you do to).

2. The dirty little secrets my brother and his girlfriend share when in the deep seated throes of 3am drunk sex.

3. The soul crushing, panicked feeling that comes with having 413 unread posts in the good ol’ Google Reader.

4. Anything relating to Heidi, Spencer and or the dynamic duo that IS Heidi and Spencer. (Why can’t I quit them?)

5. Exactly what it feels like to have a parent give up on you.

6. The taste of moldy bread. Or better yet, the feeling of seeing mold on your bread when you have one bite left.

7. The smell of cancer.

8. The lyrics to any and every song every performed by Avril Lavigne.

9. Knowing that you are the one who loves more.

10. The sound of Tyra’s voice pretending to be a homecoming queen. What. The. Hell.

Proof that a higher power exists: Jon Stewart on Larry King tonight! I love that. Oh, and Tiffany sent me this- which has brought me far too much enjoyment (AM- are you back on the bandwagon yet?!). Keep clicking the message to get a new one to show up- tell me, what’s your favourite one? Now I’m off to try and fix #3.

Today I listened to **Gardenia twelve times. I counted. Six times driving to the school (before you all smugly tell me you didn’t have work, I will say I didn’t either. I went in voluntarily to do planning. Because I’m saving up all my karma points for a new kitchen aid mixer.) and six times coming home. I listened to it once before I decided if Mandy Moore could take a run at being all angsty and filled with sorrow, then I could too. And let me tell you, I’m pretty sure by the tenth time around, I pretty much had nailed the song. There was a lot of head shaking and pounding of the steering wheel. And of course, plenty of witnesses anytime I was at a red light.

I love that my attempt at angst comes via Mandy Moore.

* Yes. I have Mandy Moore on a CD. I also think Mac computers are overrated and ascots make people look ridiculous. Now you know everything. And I know I’m not the only one with a song in my car that makes me feel guilty. So share yours- or just put that stone back in your pocket and retreat to your glass house okay?

* *Don’t watch the video. I linked to it so people could hear the song, but seriously. Mandy’s face contorts in really distracting ways during the video. And I don’t like her dress. It looks like a painting smock I wore in fourth grade. The color is pretty but I think she could have done much better. The only thing that could have made it worse is if she would have wore an ascot.

Here’s a pretty accurate run-down of what goes through my head as soon as it hits my pillow…

Dear (yes, I start out with “Dear”- is that weird?) Higher Power, or you know, controller of the Universe,

I wonder if other people call you “Higher Power” when they talk to you before going to sleep. I’m sorry, everyone calls you something different but I like Higher Power. It sounds like a name of an early 90’s boy band that didn’t quite reach Backstreet Boys status. Probably because their outfits matched a little too closely (Higher Power, not Backstreet Boys. Although, Backstreet Boys had matching outfits too. Hmm. Actually, they seemed more ‘coordinated’ less ‘matchy’- I think. I never had pictures of them up in my room, but my friend Robyn did and all I remember is Howie wearing a lot of fringe and it scaring the shit out of me. “Higher Power” looked a lot more friendly. Wait, I mean- I just imagine “Higher Power looking more friendly. I’m acting like “Higher Power” was actually a band, but they weren’t right? And if they were, I’m pretty sure you know all about them already. Because as Controller of the Universe, what don’t you know about?).

Anyway.

So thanks for the job. I don’t know how much you had to do with it and how much I had to do with it, but even it if was a 50/50 deal- I’m glad things worked out. I didn’t realize it was going to be so much work. Do you know that there’s an outbreak of pin-worms in the school? Of course you do. I bet you laughed when you decided that was going to happen. And when you decided that Paris Hilton should make movies. By the way, can you stop that now?

Speaking of celebrities, wait- should I be using my time to talk about celebrities? Shouldn’t I be talking to you about my future? Or Darfur? Or asking how my dead cocker spaniel Muffin is doing (hopefully well- remember she likes peanut butter smeared on her dog food sometimes. I know, it’s messy as hell to do but she loves it. And she’s dead so maybe cut her a break and give it to her sometimes okay?) Oh hell, that can wait- speaking of celebrities, I bet lots of people talk to you about Britney Spears and pray for her. I do too. But I’m not going to do that tonight. Because although I feel bad that she’s shown her moneyslot to the universe, sometimes I think it’s important to remember that there’s a few billion other people out there who need a little shout out too. And with the odds as they are, I’m guessing that today was the worst day on Earth for someone on this planet, so I’m going to be wishing good thoughts for them, okay? Send them some good cheer direct from me. Because my day wasn’t a 5 star event- it wasn’t the worst day either. And for that, I’m thankful.

Can I ask you something? Do you ever get tired of people asking you for stuff? For miracles? For jobs and boyfriends and safe travels and clean bills of health? For winning lottery tickets, shoe sales and victories in war? Do you ever want to just close up shop and spend a few weeks drinking pina coladas on the beach? Because I would. Honestly. I’ve only been a full-time teacher for two weeks and already I’m kind of tired of all the dependency issues that come with an army of children. I can’t imagine what that’s like to know 5 billion people are counting on you (I’m skimming off a billion, you know, for the atheists) daily. And then when you don’t give them exactly what they want, or when they want it- they get nasty and shout at you in Latin. (Well, not most people, but did you see that episode of The West Wing where the President loses it on you in the Church? And busts out the Latin so he could be more insulting? That’s why he did it you know, spoke Latin. Aaron Sorkin said it was because he could get away with saying a lot more dirty stuff than if he spoke in English. If you haven’t caught that episode, check it out. It’s a favourite).

Anyway, I just wanted to say good job. I don’t really need anything. Actually, there’s a trench coat that I tried on the other day. I didn’t like it at first- it felt like… well, too trench coat-ish when I put it on, but now I’m wishing I would have bought it. Can you save my size for me until I get back to the store?. Oh, OBAMA, you know what I feel about that. Please, please, please let that one work out. Okay see? I’m doing it. I’m falling into that trap where I ask for things, sorry. How about this- just stick to the plan you have for me and I will stick to the plan I have for me, and fingers crossed our plans are similar. And if they aren’t, and I find myself insanely angry at you because there’s another worm outbreak at school, or I have to hide in a store because you’ve decided to transport one of my least favourite people in the shoe section- I will try not to curse at you in Latin. Okay, I don’t know Latin, but I will try not to curse at you, or think of you with the regard I save for Ann Coulter either. Speaking of- help Ann okay? Or help me understand what the hell she’s thinking because seriously, I do not understand her. At all.

That’s it. Oh, and well done on the Super Bowl. That was a surprise. Speaking of, can Tom Brady and I cross paths at some point? And you know, fall in love so fast and deep that he writes a song about me and how he sees his future in my eyes? Oh damn. Asking for stuff again. Okay, cross out all the things I’ve asked for. Just keep it up.

brandy

(p.s. But if you could save me that trench coat that would be swell. Kthanx bye!)

Happiness is ….

falling asleep at 8:30pm, grade two creative writing, kicking a satisfyingly large chunk of ice off the bumper of my car, an email out of the blue, hearing someone snoring, all green lights, receiving a Valentine still sticky with glue, hearing a speech that moves me to tears, a strawberry margarita with extra salt, clean sheets, big rings, the return of Jack Shepard, homemade meatballs, 15 kids singing along to Jack Johnson, the feel of new socks, getting it, remote car starting action, someone remembering to not put whipped cream on my hot chocolate, computer access, leaving work while the sun is out, feeling like I’ve said it all, finding my mittens, Blitzer & Anderson, sleeping in, a conversation about how absolutely scary whales are, a stapler full of staples, cheap gas, an apology, 15 glue sticks with all their lids on, Season 4 of the West Wing, being offered the first lick of someone’s popsicle, being offered someone’s piece of coveted KFC in a room full of ham and cheese and finding my journals from junior high.

Life is good.

Happy Valentine’s Day universe! Share the feeling, what’s been making you happy lately?

While I figure out what is wrong with my ear (I’m guessing an ear infection, which has worsened with me continually sticking my finger in my ear- as though shoving a phalange in there is going to suddenly cure me- oh and what’s that? I pulled out the word phalange? Yep, just showing off what I remember from the first aid class I took in grade 8. I would have no idea what to do if someone was having a heart attack, but I could correctly point to his phalanges- and his tibia. Because I took notes on what was IMPORTANT.), I’m going to do something I’ve seen other bloggers do.

No, there will be no nudity.

(I should never say the ‘n’ word on this site. You wouldn’t BELIEVE how many hits I get a day because I once titled a post ‘threesomes’. I think the most horrifying link came from someone who typed in “I had a threesome with my daughter”. How… why… who… forget it. I can’t even compose a question that accurately addresses all the problems I have with that).

What the hell. The brackets are more interesting than the stuff in non-brackets here. I’m okay with my tags being more interesting than my posts, but this is a whole other level of upstaging. Anyway.

I’m opening up the comments for you to ask me a question. Ask me anything (especially questions about phalanges because I like the word) and I will reply. It’s like, you are Barbra Walters and I’m a celebrity who’s been to rehab more times than Elizabeth Taylor has said “I do”.

Except unlike Barbra, you (hopefully) won’t make me cry and don’t have a strange, almost obsession like love for brooches.

Oh, and I suspect you get laid more often.

I think of writing this post almost daily.

And then I get scared, swallow my words and choose a different topic.

Because suddenly when I see the words on the screen my thoughts seem smaller. Less valuable. Less life changing. And then I wonder, why did these thoughts change me so much? Are they worth it? Was he?

And I don’t answer myself. Not because I’m scared at what the answer might be, but because I just don’t know.

Once upon a time when I was young and naive and the world was my brightly lit, always positive oyster, I knew a guy. A guy who… well, charmed me. Charmed seems to small a word for the feelings that I felt, but it’s the closest that I can find. He was like the book that was so good it made you cry. Or the perfect skipping stone that hops down the river. Or the jeans that fit just right. He was all the good things a girl would want- and even things you didn’t realize you would want until you saw them- in him.

And of course he had a girlfriend. Who was lovely (as girlfriends of charming men who have charmed you always are). And so we did what people in such situations do- we lit the match and played with fire. Because like I said- I was young and naive and the world was my brightly lit, always positive oyster. Why wouldn’t I act on everything I felt?

We used to put everything on the 1-10. How much did I want to be a teacher? A 9- it was the report card situation that didn’t push me to a 10. How deep was his love for Madonna? 2- he wasn’t a fan.I remember we were talking about marriage. More specifically- the chances of him marrying his lovely girlfriend. So I asked the question that would hurt both of us: How much do you want to marry your girlfriend? His reply? A three.

I don’t for one second believe he downplayed the number to spare my feelings. I believe his answer was sincere, having said it through a long sigh that sounded both sad and frustrated. Like the hiss that comes from a deflated tire. A three. Three. Less than half. Almost close to his feelings towards Madonna. There’s no appropriate response to such an confession so I said nothing, but inside my brain went into overdrive.

Why only three? Why would you stay with someone if you only wanted to be with them a three? Is it comfort? Security? Are you staying because that’s what is expected of you? Because it’s the easiest thing to do? Are you that much of a wimp? And how does she not realize that you only want to marry her a three? Does she know and is pretending differently, or are you that good at hiding everything? And if you think she’s pretending- why would you want to stay with someone who would be willing to settle for the likes of you?

Eventually we faded out of each others lives. We had reached a point where neither of us could do anything else- and what we had done had already been too much. I think our last conversation involved him discussing buying tires. I suppose that’s the beauty of some relationships- they end without long speeches or heartfelt confessions. Sometimes they end with people discussing tires. It ends just how it began- easily and without expectations.

That was a long time ago, yet I can’t help but wonder- did he marry her? Is he happy? Is she? If you’ve been with someone for as long as he had been with her and was only at a three- did his love suddenly grow? How does that happen? Or, did it stay a three and did he marry her anyway? Or did he not marry her at all?

I have no answers to these questions. In fact, I can’t even explain why I still think of any of this- but I do. Oh, I do.

This weekend I might have bought a book on US politics.

And I might have also re-discovered a love for red wine.

And I might have consumed wine and then called people.

And I might have thought it would be THE GREATEST idea to read them my favourite line from The Gettysburg Address.

And I might have actually shed a tear or two while reading it.

And I might have followed all of that up by telling each of them that I LOVE THEM and then letting them know that they are AMAZING and then asking if they wanted me to read my favourite part of the speech again. (Because aren’t the words just… MAJESTIC? And BEAUTIFUL? AND MAJESTICALLY BEAUTIFUL?)

And I might have woke up the next day and realized exactly why I should not own a cell phone.

Seriously. Sigh. Why can’t I just be one of those people who calls everyone and tells them I love them and leave out, you know… quoting speeches?

Speaking of politics, have you read this? Caroline Kennedy is all sorts of awesome. I would sell all my non-essential internal organs just to serve her lunch.

And for the record:

“The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here“- Abe “I rock a beard better than you” Lincoln