Tara Reid in Playboy

She's looking great!

Funny

Me: I don't know why she continues to stalk my blog.

Friend: Dont be so shocked!

Me: Why not?

Friend: Because you're young, blonde, and hot!!!

Me: I owe you my first born for that!

Dear Victoria,

I see you stalking my blog again.


Amaya

All I Want for Christmas...

Can I tell you something? If one more person asks me what I want for Christmas I may say a grenade launcher. So I can- wait, I’m not going to finish that sentence. It would be crossing a line. I’m not sure if it’s PMS or the fact that I’m just tired, but pondering the destruction I would like to create if one more person asks what they can get me to celebrate the birth of baby J, seems a bit over the top. Even for me.

Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be First Lady, but struggle to come up with a list of what I want PEOPLE TO BUY FOR ME has not been lost).

Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:

Well-meaning gift buyer: Maya, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?

Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…

Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?

Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-

Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!

Okay, so I exaggerate.

Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my Christmas list last year , but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.


What I want nobody can give me, but this isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 3 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.


And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from La Perla, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.

I promise.

A Simple Wish

Peace.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.

I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the man I turned away, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.

Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.

Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.

I will wish for peace.

How Do You Know?

If he always gives you the last bite of his sandwich or the first lick of his ice cream cone, then he loves you.

If he’s seen your high school prom photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.


If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.

If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.

If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.

If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a lit up room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.

If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t- then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.

If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.

If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Michael, the one who never washes his hair, calls his penis “Frankie the Pork Sword” and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.

If you are Jennifer Anistan, then he loves you.

If he’s consumed your mom’s burnt chicken, let your brother win the basketball game and laughed too long and too hard at your dad’s jokes, then he loves you.

If he told you how him and his cousin ran out of school on the first day to get to their Mommies, then he loves you. Or, he’s made up the story to get into your pants. But he could love you.

If he tells you, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to”, then he loves you.

If he sits through “The Hills” every Monday night, then he loves you. And possibly Heidi. But he loves you.

If he introduces you to his daughter, then he loves you.

If during hour five of an eight hour roadtrip, he sees you are bored and flips the radio station to a horrifying boy band song and begins to serenade you with his best falsetto, while keeping the beat with his hand tapping your knee, and refuses to quit until you laugh, then he loves you.

If he’s ever bought you tampons, then he loves you.

If, while vertical, sober, and full clothed, and without hope or agenda, he tells you that he loves you, then he loves you.

If he knows exactly what scene in “Gone with the Wind” that makes you cry the hardest, and he waits until the movie is over before he begins to make fun of you for crying in the first place, then he loves you.

If his favorite stories are the ones of you as a kid, if he calls you ‘monkey’ in front of his friends, if he remembers that you like the kleenex with the lotion in it, if he allows you to use clorox all over the house, if he lets you eat his french fries when you know they are his favorite, if he makes small talk with your grandmother when you can’t deal with her crazy, if he tells you that your cute victory dance is worth his own defeat, if he checks the road conditions before you leave for a trip, if he’s ever attempted to sew a button on your favorite dress when you are running late, then he loves you.

Thats how you know!

Taking Care of Bidness!

Tonight I'll be at my grandparent's farm. I'm so thrilled....it's like watching paint dry. I live a fast life!

I am going to be making my Christmas list that should be fun stuff :)

Hope all is well!!!

A

A Proud Moment

I teach Health to eight year olds. Once a week, for thirty minutes- we talk about how to brush your teeth or what to do if your kid brother lights you on fire with firecrackers and the many different types of flammable liquid one can find around the home (and why it’s bad news bears to drink them).


One of the things we work on in Health is self- esteem. They are growing up in a Bratz Dolls universe and any doll that can make Barbie look like a slob has got to be dangerous. So last Health block, I walked in and asked the kids “What is something you have done that made you feel proud?”. Their answers involved puzzled looks and crickets. After a minute of silence, one of the boys, raised his hand and asked me, “what’ve you done that makes you proud?”. I ran through the list of G rated examples a teacher always has on hand. (I left out the one time in my life I tied a cherry stem with my tongue). I talked about how I was proud when I went traveling along the West Coast ( where I spent most of my money on clothes, coffee and wine in a carton), when I became a teacher (after four years of school where I spent all my money on clothes, coffee and beer in a keg), when I learned how to say **”supercalifragilisticexpealidious” backwards (I have no naughty version, it was just a cool thing to learn how to do).



I was thinking while driving home tonight, one of my proudest accomplishments isn’t related to somewhere I went. It has nothing to do with my career or finally crossing something off a “Life List”. It’s not about learning something new, and it’s not even about the cherry stem tying happening in my mouth. One of my greatest accomplishments was taking care of my ill father. I’m not sure why I love it as much as I do, but I do. And I’m not sure why I feel awkward admitting that, as though I just announced to the internet “Oh look at how awesome I am. Whoo hoo me!*hair toss/swagger/smug guns & wink”, no, it’s definitely not that I guess I just feel like if I’m encouraging kids to be their own biggest fan, to cheer the loudest for their own success, their own moments where they feel like they get it just right, I should do the same. So there it is. Im a daddy's girl thru and thru. My moment!

Cheating

I had a conversation recently that went something like this…

Not me: So, have you ever cheated on a boyfriend?

Me: Define cheat.

Not me: Have you ever had sex with someone else while dating a guy?

Me: When I was 16!

Not me: So…. then what’s your definition of cheating?

Me: I think cheating is doing something I wouldn’t do if my boyfriend was there.

Not me: So then you have cheated?

Me: Well, under my definition yes. Under your definition, no.

(Long silence as we contemplate that under my definition we are both guilty and under theirs we are both innocent…)

It seemed strange that such a huge issue- the issue of cheating, would be defined so differently between two people. I always assumed that cheating was a black and white issue, how could there be so much confusion? So much grey matter? I decided to ask my trusty dictionary to give me some clear cut definition- but found out that Encarta is sometimes as helpful as a screen door in a submarine. This is what I got…

1. deceive somebody: to deceive or mislead somebody, especially for personal advantage
2. be unfaithful: to have a sexual relationship with somebody other than a spouse or regular sexual partner
3. escape something: to avoid harm or injury by luck or cunning

So, we both found our definition embedded in the great mind of Encarta. Instead of feeling pleased that the dictionary recognized the act of deceit as cheating, I was more troubled. Were Encarta and I prudes in assuming that cheating was deceit? Did everyone else think cheating was sex? And if they did, were the majority of these individuals carrying a Y chromosome?




Cheating is….(According to my friends)

- “sex.”
- “anything you do that you wouldn’t want anyone to find about”
- “ isn’t looking at other girls. It’s giving them my phone number when my girls in the bathroom”
- “unforgivable. People say they forgive it but don’t forget, but if you don’t forget something that horrible, how can it be a healthy relationship?
”- “boob grabbing”
- “ a words game. It’s instinct over conscience. It’s anything you do that you feel guilty about”
- “wishing the boyfriend/girlfriend you are with was someone else”
- “dangerous, and devastating if you are the person getting cheated on. I would never do it because I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what I did.”
- “anything you wouldn’t do with someone of the same sex (if you aren’t gay)”
- “removal of clothing”
- “lying to your partner because you spending time with someone else. Even if you are fully clothed and spend the whole day at the park, once you lie, you cheat”
- “sometimes a way to see if you are really serious about your boyfriend/girlfriend”
- “not cool unless you are on a holiday, or if she/he is cheating too”
- “not worth it. I mean, if you want to be with someone else, why are you with the person you are with?”
- “getting caught”


Our society clearly defines our world; this is what murder is, this is what marriage is, this is what taxable income is… and yet, cheating has slipped through the cracks. I realize that cheating is a moral issue and that it would be impossible to lay down a clear definition in the “book of life” , I’m just saying that it would be nice. I like the idea of in the heat of an argument being able to pull down a large book with tissue thin pages that would state: “Cheating is: holding the hand of another girl at the movies”, or something similar. It would make things so much easier- and arguments a lot shorter.

Until then I will hold myself accountable and feel guilt over my past. Why? Because I’d rather be guilty under my definition than innocent under someone else’s.

We Must Confess

I recently asked my class “what is beautiful?” here were some of my favorite responses:

- “trophies”

- "me when I’m being nice to new people and showing them things like where the bathroom is”

- “sparkly earrings and swirly bracelets”

- “the sun when it looks like a fire”

- “a big bowl of popcorn that I don’t have to share”

- “Luke Skywalker and how he always beats bad guys like Darth Vader because Darth Vader is bad and Luke is always gonna be good because he’s a good guy and he has the right light saber”

- “baby monkeys who kiss their mama”

- “100% on my math test. Not the easy one we did on even and odd numbers, but that hard one we did before”

- “strawberry lime margaritas served by shirtless men with great personalities who give free massages and sell designer shoes on the side at reasonable prices”

The last one might have been mine. What would you say is beautiful?

We are having an early dismissal today. Apparently there is a lot of flooding still going on. It's still raining a lot here.

It would be a great day to go home and bake cookies and cupcakes and lounge around on the couch and veg out. Instead, I'll be doing more productive things.

Tuesday was 90 days since Daddy passed and it's still very difficult. It has changed me greatly. I'm not the same person I was 3 months ago.

I will be spending my weekend shopping and spending the night at the farm. I'm looking forward to Georgetown.

I have a workout date with my aunt on Sunday. Should be rather interesting.

Have a great weekend everybody!

Amaya

Getting My Ass Kicked

Me in all my teaching glory: ” *Chloe! Stop kicking Matthew!”

Chloe: “He kicked me first.”

Me in all my teaching glory: “Well please stop, you know the rules. Hands and feet to yourselves. Keep it up and you will both be missing recess.”

Chloe: “But it’s not fair, he kicked me first.”

Me in all my teaching glory: “But if you kick back, you are breaking the rules too. You need to tell him to stop, and if he doesn’t- tell a teacher. He may have done it first, but if I look up from my desk and see YOU kicking, you are going to get in trouble too. Understand?”

At recess, I watched the students from the classroom window and contemplated how easy it was to solve kid problems with a quick phrase and stern voice. I found the words “but if you kick back, you are breaking the rules too” sink inside me and realized as my mind raced over the last few days, that I hadn’t been taking my own advice.

This last week I’ve been a complete asshole. It’s true. I’m ashamed of how I’ve been acting. Ashamed. And it takes a lot to get me to cross that threshold, but I’m there. I know that writing here is one opportunity I have to not talk about what I’ve been doing,- it would be easy to tell it all with a few jokes or even skip it completely and tell only a funny story about a kid who is bringing a deer ear to show and tell on Monday (no seriously. A DEER EAR.) . But… that wouldn’t feel right. Because I’m not always funny. And I’m learning I’m not always nice.

The first incident was no one’s fault. It was a wrong place, wrong time sort of incident that resulted in a disappointing night. There was no yelling or drama, just curt goodbyes and a long sigh on the drive home. But it was frustrating. And at the time, I didn’t know what to do when handed a box of frustration addressed to me. A gift wrapped up in misunderstanding and mistakes- I took it out on the only other person it involved, not being calm enough to realize that not every disappointment is linked to a person. Sometimes things fall apart, mistakes are made, people change and no one is to blame. And I blamed. In ways that are still making me shake my head.

The second situation is too ridiculous to even write up. I can with 100% certainty say that if I shared it, you would see my side, commiserate with me and call the other individual names I’ve already said in my head. But it wouldn’t help. She screwed up, but my reaction to it- the slamming of doors, the swearing (not so much under my breath), the ranting to everyone on the phone who shares my area code- was just as bad. She broke the rules, and instead of dealing with it- I broke them too.

It’s harder now that we are older. The rules still get broken, our feelings still get hurt, we still get kicked. And when we do get kicked, there’s no teacher to tell, so often we just kick back- with a cold word, slammed door or an unanswered call. But whether a classmate kicks us in the shin or life kicks us in the ass- we still decide how we deal with it. Whether we stomp around in the kitchen and curse the Gods or take a minute and put it in perspective before dealing with it like an adult- we choose how we respond, we choose if we kick back.

Matthew and Chloe made it out for recess. They played nicely outside and at the end of the day I told them I was proud of them for getting along so well. And I was. Because they were able to do something that I have been struggling with- getting kicked, dealing with it and then playing nicely.

I have a lot to learn from 8 year olds.

* Names have been changed to protect kickers who teach me stuff

I May Have the Best Job in the World

There is an seven year old boy in my class that reminds me of Walter Matthau and for those of you who don't know who he is, here is a refresher.

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 evening 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, Juan, 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 favorite colors. The students worked harder and were more thoughtful in answering their questions than I had anticipated. My mini-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.

Trash Day with the Neighbors

I woke up yesterday morning with the kind of start that only comes when your body is trying frantically to remind you of something your head has forgotten. I realized that today was garbage day. Bleary eyed and rocking serious bed-head I scrambled around the house trying to collect two weeks worth of garbage. I threw on a fleece coat over my pajamas and trudged on a frost covered ground, grumbling the entire way in the still dark morning.

At the end of the long driveway I dropped my bag. Despite the 30 degree temperature, I stopped to dump out the frost that had began to numb my sock-less foot and saw that I wasn’t the only person who was out. In the retirement community was an elderly man and woman were emerging from their home with trash bag in hand. She grabbed his arm to prevent a fall and they walked leisurely towards the street. The spectacled man waved me over.

He said good morning, introduced himself as John and explained that he lived next door. He offered his services if I needed help with anything and told me that his wife Audrey made excellent chicken soup- if I was ever interested.

I expressed thanks through chattering teeth and made a joke about how nice it would be to have an escort to take the garbage out with.

Audrey looked at me and explained that her and her husband always took the garbage out together. “It’s silly, but it’s something we always do. It’s our thing, I guess you could say.”

I nodded like the idea of designating 6am cold November mornings outdoors lugging trash as “couple time” made perfect sense. It didn’t- it was insane. I said my goodbyes and turned to retrace my footsteps back to a warm home. I reached the door and turned to wave at the Hamilton's and saw they weren’t looking at me. They were looking at the sky. Audrey said something and they both laughed. Then John kissed Audrey and they began their walk inside together, linked together through puffy coats and knitted mittens.

I looked at them and realized that if they were insane, I wanted to be too.

I walked inside alone.

Classy Taste

So I was at the bank today and saw a girl wearing a shirt that said:

“i fuck like a girl”

I couldn’t help but think that it would have been funny if it said “tiger” instead of “girl”. I mean, that would be a t-shirt I would throw down for. Plus, it would (finally) give me something to wear on a first date.

Shakira

I'm loving Shakira's She Wolf! So catchy and relative.

Angry, much?

This has nothing to do with my hair not cooperating or the fact that my favorite fall clothes are not fitting the way I like. It’s more than that. It’s less than that. I haven’t liked my attitude lately. And by that I mean, if I could figure out a painless way to curb stomp some sense into me, I would.

I’ve been sleeping well. I’ve been visiting friends. I’ve been working regularly. I’ve been running and reading and writing in my journal. I’ve been taking my vitamins, deep conditioning my hair, remembering to wear my glasses. I’ve paid my bills, gone for dinner, cleaned my closet.
And still?

I’ve been angry. Irrationally angry. About everything.

Slow drivers. Fast talkers. Misspelled words. Expectations I can’t meet. The Starbucks employee scoffing at my order. Being too hot. Being too cold. Dark mornings. Parents who don’t pack lunches for their children. Forecasted rain. Careless comments. Slow mail. Being on hold. Couples who make out in the grocery store. Being sneezed on. People who don’t say “thank you”. Anonymous emails. Frost on my windshield.

Of course, with anger- irrational or otherwise, comes guilt. Guilt at getting mad over the child who spills his entire snack and drink on the floor after he’s been told he needs to eat in his desk not dancing around the room. Guilt at not being ‘the fun friend’ or the even just the friend who can do everything she once promised she could. Guilt that’s the residue of all the anger I feel towards everything. Everyone.

I know that it will pass.

It has to- I’m too young to have permanent frown lines.

Daddy's Girl....Lost

It's 12 am. I can't sleep. I'm restless. I'm going through a lot of transformations right now and I'm trying to adjust to this new world without my Daddy.

The pain never goes away. I miss him so much. I seriously can't believe it sometimes. It truly is the hardest thing in the world to wake up without him. To not have him here with me is heartbreaking. Sometimes I don't even want to get out of bed. He's so missed.

I know he is no longer in pain. He is at peace. He's my world. And my world just isn't right without him here with me.

I need to see him again. I need to see his smile. I want to hug him forever because thats the only place I've ever felt safe is in my daddy's arms. He was the one that always went up to bat for me. He always knew just what to say or do to make it all better.

He always was proud to call me his 'shadow' to everyone. He was so brilliant. A man's man. He is just the most wonderful man and I'm one lucky girl to have such a great daddy.

I'm a bit lost these last few days... I miss him so much. I sometimes talk to him and that helps. He picks me up when I'm down even on these awful days when you can't seem to function because you miss him so damn much.

Daddy,

I miss you. I wish I had one more hour with you. I would do anything for a hug and kiss from my daddy. I know you don't like it when I'm upset. You hate it when I cry but sometimes it hurts so bad that I have to climb into bed and just cry myself to sleep. I know you know how much we love you...I just wish I had one more opportunity to tell you again.


Shadow

It's Time for a Change

I need new hair! I'm open to all opinions and suggestions. Feel free to leave your thoughts :)



I'm thinking of going a shade darker...

or


I'm thinking of cutting it off to my shoulders...

or


I'm thinking of adding some bangs...


I am 3o now. I've had the same hair for years. I do love it, but I want something different. Occasionally I do add 'extentions' courtesy of Michelle, but they aren't forever and pink extentions aren't exactly acceptable in school.

Excited to hear from you guys!!!

Needs Improvement

Fact: I am horrible at math.

I'm sure I mentioned it before how in college my freshmen year I got 17% on a math midterm and my teacher wrote “good improvement” on my exam, because it was.

I was always told that if I tried harder, studied longer, asked more questions, that I would improve. So I tried. I sat in the front row, never missed a class, had tutors and a calculator so complex I’m sure I could have used it to beam aboard the Endeavour spacecraft.

And I still failed.

Because I’m just not the girl who can do long division in her head without looking like she’s in physical pain.

I’m also not the girl who remembers to pick up her dry cleaning on time. I’m not the girl who can eat spaghetti without spilling it, nor am I the girl who can build a bookcase without have at least 7 leftover parts. I’m not the girl who can cook lobster to perfection, hit a baseball out of the park or sew anything more complicated than a straight line.

I’m not a girl who is able to quit a job without feeling like she failed. I’m not a girl who is able to bite her tongue when she’s mad, remember an umbrella when it looks like rain or can stop from crying at a wedding.

No matter how hard I tried to become her, the girl I’m not is the girl I will never be. And I’m okay with that. Because sometimes knowing what you can’t do- what you will never do, what you don’t want to do, allows you to appreciate everything you can do, and everything you are. Because what I see now is when I add up all the things I’m not, they will never measure who I am.

I’m still bad at math, the only difference is that I can now fully appreciate how excellent I am at so much else. I may not be able to do long division in my head but I can give a goodbye toast that will knock your socks off. I can’t multiply by 13 in rapid fire, but I can ride a horse, write a play, make the best chicken tetrazzini you will ever have. I can’t recite pi to 14 places (only 12, and this was learned only out of boredom) but I can spend an entire day with 20 kids who all want to be pirates and not kill myself, in fact- I will enjoy myself.

I’m not a girl who can apply the mathematical “FOIL” rule as quickly as others, but I can drive a muscle car in tall girl shoes.

And that seems like a good improvement.