What's His Age Again?

I don't know when coincidence became a pattern, but I realized recently that I've gotten involved with a suspicious number of 23 year old men during my time as an adult.

I suppose that was fine when I was 23.  Or 25.  But now 23 means they were born in the 90s.  That they were still in high school when I started teaching.  That they were in eighth grade when I went to college.  That they were barely in elementary school when I went to middle school.  That they weren't even conceived when the Berlin Wall fell.  I mean, I don't remember it, but damn, at least I was alive.  I was probably bingeing on Sesame Street when it happened.  (Actually, I looked it up.  It was a Thursday.  I went to school that day.   I went to school before they were even born.)

It's probably actually not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things.  Plenty of people end up with significant others more than 6 years their senior or junior.  The difference, of course, is that right now six years puts us at opposite ends of our twenties, a decade that spans a vast spectrum of life choices and decisions.  While I am in my seventh year of my career and buying a house, many twenty-three year old men are still deciding whether or not it's okay to go back and party at their old frat when they visit.  And while it is in fact perfectly legitimate for a 23 year old to party with buddies who are still in college, it's pretty weird for a 28 year old to do that.  I can imagine the conversation:

TwentyThree: Hey, I'm going to visit college friends this weekend.  Wanna come?
Me: Sure.  What do you have planned?
TwentyThree: My frat is having a party, so probably a lot of beer pong.
Me: Isn't that game pretty unsanitary?  I mean, people vomit on the same floor the ball bounces on when you miss.
TwentyThree: ...

My sister's best friend is turning 21 this Sunday in Atlanta and invited me to celebrate when I shared that I'd be there this weekend. "You're more than welcome to join us, but just so you know, it'll be an apartment party and then a crappy college bar."  I took a moment to imagine myself in a college apartment, surrounded by 21 year olds, and I just couldn't.  Those were good times, but I'm over it.

This past weekend, I was hanging out at Oktoberfest in Kenner, and a volleyball friend of mine asked me about the guy from Saturday night in Florida.  "He's 23," I said, assuming that's all that needed to be said.  My friend seemed unfazed: "Some guys were 23 when they were 18.  Some guys are still 18 when they turn 23."  He then proceeded to share with me about the only two guys he knows that are single, one of whom was sitting right next to him (and probably overhearing our conversation).  A guy that I later found out is...23.

I know, it's a little scary.

This realization of my unconscious affinity for 23 year olds has made me a little nervous about guys that I meet or run into.  On the way out of work the other day, I was trying to cross the street as a car was pulling out into traffic and a bike was riding up.  The guy on the bike saw me, smiled, and then slowed down.  "It's dangerous trying to cross," he said. "It's like playing frogger."  He then smiled at me again before speeding back up.  I think that guy was hitting on me, I said to myself.  ...I bet he's 23.  And then I got in my car and laughed.

Me: I'm terrible at telling how old people are.  I swear to God, I thought that last 23 year old I kissed was 30.
Friend: (laughs) What are you going to do?  Card every guy you meet?
Me: ...

I just might have to.

Call me Mrs Robinson.

Spin Stir

There is a significant chunk of my life that I spend completely unworried about my relationship status, and for that I am grateful.  By unfriending people who viciously inflict virtual PDA on me via Facebook, and avoiding all contact with social media on February 14th, I often manage to forget that I am one of the few single people I know my age.  By focusing on all the perks of being unattached, I regularly forget that I don't really want to be single at all.

I am good at a lot of things.  In fact, I would venture to say that I have a wide variety of talents.  Give me a skill and I'll master it.  Give me a challenge and I'll meet it.  I am a strong, happy, and confident individual, capable of so much.

But all of that changes when relationships come into play.

It has been a long time since I've gotten to a third date, and a longer time still since I've made it past the three month mark.  The last time I was in a relationship that lasted more than a year--or better yet, the only time I have ever dated someone for that long--was seven years ago.  I was twenty-one, and it was a dysfunctional relationship.  Or at least that's what counseling professionals have told me.

Being perpetually single is like being perpetually unemployed.  Sure, you may start out calling it "fun-employment" and unabashedly rubbing your carefree lifestyle in people's faces, but eventually, the time gets past you, and by the time you realize you need rent money and health insurance, you can't seem to get anyone to call you back.

Every new single man I have met in the last month has been at least five years younger than me.  Any single man that has shown interest in me in the last year has made no attempt at pursuit or has flat-out told me he's just playing the field.  One recommended that I get knocked up so that I could trap a husband.

"I think I'd rather be chosen," I replied.

I am fully aware that I am the common denominator here.  I am aware that this more than likely has something to do with me and the way that I interact with men.  But in all honesty, I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing wrong.  Dating is like chess to me.  I know some of the rules and none of the strategy.  When I think I'm doing the right thing, I'm actually walking right into check-mate.  I have always preferred checkers, but it's the unhitched version of chess.  Great for visual pattern recognition (ie. eye candy), terrible for extended interest.

My family has taken different approaches to my apparent spinsterhood.  My parents and siblings pretend like they don't notice.  My cousins ask casually if I'm seeing anyone at family events.  My aunts try to set me up on dates with doctors fifteen years my senior.  They all do it with a sincere and genuine desire for my happiness.  But none of it makes me happy.

And so, I begin to wonder if maybe I shouldn't start making back up plans.  You know, a plan B in case I never end up getting married and having kids.  I don't know exactly what that would be.  Being childless would certainly benefit my bank account; maybe I could travel.  My Uncle Bubber never got married or had kids, and he had a limo and a house in Puerto Rico.  Then again, my Uncle Bubber was not a school teacher.  I don't foresee a limo in my future, and I don't really want one (they get terrible gas mileage).  When I was in high school, I thought about joining the church and being a nun.  Of course, I realized pretty quickly that it wasn't for me; it's not what I wanted.  I don't know if they'd look kindly upon making out on Florida dance floors, either.  Maybe I just need to start taking quilting classes and buying government bonds and investing in cats.

I don't bring God into the conversation very often (not as much as I probably should), but I do sincerely believe that He has a plan for me.  I do believe that at some point in my life, all of this will make more sense.  I will look back on these years and see the context that frames my frustrations.  What I do not know is how long it will take before the picture becomes clear.  I do not know if that picture will look anything like what I'm hoping for.

I have seen a lot of Hallmark movies about confident and talented women that just can't get it right with men.  I know that I am a walking stereotype.  But Hallmark is not real life.  Happy endings aren't guaranteed.

When I was in college, I took a class on Surrealist literature to meet a French lit requirement.  My professor was a jerk, and for the first two months of the class, I was lost.  The stories didn't make sense.  Despite a fairly good grasp of the language, I had no idea what was going on.  It wasn't until the end of the semester that it started to click, or more accurately, that I finally came to peace with the incoherency that is the genre.

They say that truth is stranger than fiction, but it seems to me that strangeness has nothing to do with it.  Truth is messier than fiction.  Its symbolism is less obvious.  Its plot doesn't follow conflict-climax-denouement every time the way it should.  Instead, we are left to sift through the mess, to try to make sense where nonsense may reign, to seek out peace in moments of sharded satisfaction.

Like JFK did in 1962, I will seek peace with patience.  I will wait to see what comes.  I will quietly guard hope.  And in the meantime, I will continue to enjoy this adventure and all the surprises that come with it.

What is it those pesky kids say nowadays?  You only live once?



SWF seeks SM for late-night conversations, tennis ball juggling, and jaunts on the beach.  Must have ambitions, enjoy sports, and be tolerant of bad puns.  Muscles a plus.  Smokers need not apply.

Gelato, Get In My Belly!

I made it through the week.  Every day felt like Monday, and there was a lot of crying (which is pretty abnormal for me...unless someone is dying in a movie, then I'm weeping), but I made it.  And to celebrate, I stopped by the grocery store last night on my way home and picked up a pint of Talenti Mediterranean Mint gelato.  In other words, I purchased 800 calories of better-than-ice-cream and then ate it, along with a few pizza slices, in front of my Netflix-connected television.

In 2008, I participated in a teacher development program called SMILE through Tulane University.  We took multiple weeks of math and science related classes at the University, and then we went on a couple of field trips throughout the year.  While the classes were fairly engaging and informative (though poorly differentiated), the field trips were mostly a waste of time.  I only went to the first one, at the end of the first quarter, and I spent all of my down time grading quarterlies.  I graded in Subway.  I graded in my hotel room.  I graded on the bus.  I spent most of the remainder of my non-grading time wishing I was grading tests or relaxing at home instead of walking around a large science complex on the Northshore that was way too complicated to have anything to do with my students.  Keep in mind, I also had the added stress of being the one-eyed king of the classroom (read: first year of teaching), and of having recently suffered a week-long evacuation for Hurricane Gustav (which I also spent grading and wishing I was home).

A few months later, there was a second field trip for the program.  I begrudgingly made plans to go and procured a substitute for the occasion, but I ended up opting out for health reasons.  Well, I thought they were health reasons.  I mean, I felt like I was coming down with something.  But the morning of, I awoke feeling as good as new, and instead, passed the entire day drinking soda, devouring delivery pizza, and finishing off a half-gallon of ice cream and the entire first two seasons of Chuck on DVD.  My mom called at one point to see how I was doing, and I replied excitedly, "Why did no one tell me playing hooky was so much fun?"

Forget fried chicken.  Pizza, ice cream, and TV are my soul food.  They're better than uppers: inexpensive, relatively non-habit forming, and clear endorphin triggers (because you can't help but exercise the next day when you realize you've just consumed an entire day's calories in thirty minutes on the couch).

Had someone asked me to go do something fun last night, I probably would've jumped on the invitation instantaneously.  But being home afforded me the quiet opportunity to simply be after a week of go go go.  It also gave me the opportunity to finally spend time with my roommate, who I haven't seen in like a week, thanks to weird hours on her part and early nights on mine. (We talked about boys, duh.)

Our principal is always getting up in front of the school at morning meeting and telling us we should be thinking about what we're grateful for.  This morning, I awoke (in my own room again!) grateful for a home, grateful for friends, and most decidely, grateful for the weekend.

With Friends Like These

Today is a new day.  I haven't cried once.  Well, not unless you count the happy tears.

It's amazing how just when the world seems darkest, just when the sky seems to pull a Chicken Little, just when your landlady kicks you out of your room and calls it an "inconvenience," that's when you realize just how lucky you are.

I have some really amazing friends.  Every time I lean into the wind, they encourage and support me.  They know me well enough to tread lightly with questions when I'm quiet, to know just what to say to help me through, to distract me with compliments, and to leave candy on my doorstep.

I have already eaten all of the Reese's Pieces.  I got home 30 minutes ago.

The last two days, I have felt like a wreck.  Discombobulated and scattered and stressed.  I haven't been able to keep up the strong and polite exterior I prefer, and as a result, I've gotten into an argument with my landlady, been way too cool about the fact that my sister just got engaged (sorry, Sarah, I promise I'll be more excited once I can get my shit together), and have generally shut people out.

And yet, they haven't shut me out.

People that I have known for ages, and people that I have known for less than a year checked in with me today.  They made me laugh (thanks, Mick), they made me cry (thanks, Chris), and I began to feel, above all else, strong.

Monday night, I ate dinner at my parents' house.  My mom made manicotti with spinach, and my teenage brother was appalled that she'd ruined an otherwise deliciously meat- and carb-heavy meal with vegetables.  He's been working out and trying to build muscle, so we all jumped on him about the ridiculousness of his complaint.

"I just need proteins," he said.
"Protein," I said.
"Proteins," he repeated.
"What is this?  Biology?  Why are you making protein plural?" I said.
"I'm strong to the finish 'cause I eats me spinach," my dad said, and gave a laugh like Popeye.

Friends, you are my spinach.  You build me up, you make me strong, and you help me when bearded men try to steal my olive oil ('cause that shit ain't cheap).  I am thankful every day for your presence in my life.

I'll end with a quote that a friend from college sent to me this morning.  It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and I've read it over and over again since.  Nikola, this got me through the day.  Thank you.

Courage doesn't always roar.  Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying,
"I will try again tomorrow."
-Mary Anne Radmacher

Rebekah and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

As if it wasn't bad enough that Fuds had to end.  The last 24 hours have been a proverbial bird-flipping from the universe.  I don't know what I did to incite this kind of karma, but it must've been bad.

I wasn't exaggerating when I said that coming home from Florida was hard.  I had a great time, and between fun-withdrawal and sleep-deprivation, I was feeling pretty low Sunday morning on the drive back home.  Then I realized that I forgot my pillow in the condo.  Then I got the call from my landlady to move everything in my room out by the morning.  Then I got home to a sink of dirty dishes, a load of laundry, an almost-empty fridge, and a feel of being completely overwhelmed and defeated.  I'm not going to lie to you; I cried last night.  I cried on my parents' couch, in front of my family, somewhere between a story about Sarah's engagement and my mom's gracious and unexpected gifting of a binding machine I borrow sometimes for my classroom.  I left shortly after dinner.  I just wanted to go home and cry in my room.  And then I remembered that I wouldn't have a room this week.  Instead, I had to go home and move furniture.

I moved everything, and then sat in the living room for a minute, checking Facebook.  My sub from the day had sent me a message about how a kid wet herself in my classroom and how the class didn't get much done that day.  Then she asked to be my Facebook friend.  And I deleted her request, unwilling to play friend to someone I don't really know, before brushing my teeth and getting into bed.  I fell asleep slowly in an island of a bed, in a room that didn't look much like mine anymore.

The morning was slow-moving, and I arrived at school later than I wanted to a stack of ungraded papers; my college helper had only gotten through one class out of six.  My inbox was full of emails.  My box in the office was full of paperwork.  My desk was messy.  I realized that I hadn't copied anything for my fourth grade class yet for the day.  I realized that I needed to fill out logs for students in my homeroom class.  I remembered that after I finished grading everything, I had to record how many students missed every question on the exam.  That's 150 students times 30+ questions.  My to-do list began to feel like a pillow pressed to the face, slowly asphyxiating me with its ever-increasing workload.

I got done what I could do, and I made it out to morning meeting before the end of the pledge (read: late).  One of my students was absent (meaning more work for me), and another forgot her backpack (meaning more work for me).  When we got upstairs, a student said to me, "Oh, I thought that our sub was going to be here today."  I replied, "Ouch.  Are you that disappointed to see me?"  I instantly felt bad.  She just needed to give something back to the sub.  Her comment had nothing to do with me, but I'd passed on a piece of my dark cloud to her anyway.  Guilt set in.

My planning period was a wash.  I received a flurry of emails from my realtor, loan officer, and an elevation/shoring contractor about estimates.  I spent half of the hour leaving voicemails with roofers who never called me back, and the other half hour marking numerous fifth grade tests with Cs, Ds, and Fs (in other words, inviting parents to send me angry emails).  My coworker tried to reassure me at lunch.  "It'll all work out," she said.  I may have grunted ungratefully.  She was right, I'd get it done; I always do.  But it felt (feels) so far from possible.

There was a section of time today that was not so terrible, horrible, very bad.  The kids were really good for me today, for the most part, and my homeroom even took care of themselves enough to allow me to do a little grading as they worked on a research activity.  I also had the foresight to cancel my normal Tuesday afternoon tutoring hour, so I was able to get more grading done in the hour after dismissal.  Three classes graded and recorded, three to go.

I rushed out of school at 4:40 in order to get back home in time to change and get to volleyball before the doubles tournament began at 5.  I walked into the house, walked up to my bedroom door, opened it, and proceeded to shout incoherently.  This is what my room looks like today:

Both of my closets are taped up.  My bed was moved in front of my dresser in the back room, despite the fact that my landlady told me it could stay in the room.  I had to move both the mattress and the box spring off the dresser just to get to the shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, and socks, and I had to force open a closet door to get my shoes.  I had to change in the bathroom.  They'd taken down the fan.  They'd taken down the curtains.  Everything was taped and covered.  This looked like it would take days, if not a week.  The thought made me angry, and it made me want to cry, but I had nowhere private in the whole of my house to be sad.

I made it to volleyball only a few minutes late, but I had a hard time getting focused and feeling motivated to move and be aggressive.  I felt bad that I wasn't playing up to par for my partner.  We ended up losing in the finals 11-8.  More guilt.

I shared my frustrations with some friends, who offered their support (and complimented my eyebrows...hey-o!), and then I remembered that I still needed to go to the grocery store.  Commence more cursing and a side trip to the store.

After putting away the small number of groceries that I hope will last me until the weekend, I called my landlady.  Her son picks up and tells me that she's gone off to her "little sewing circle" and should be back later tonight.  I asked if he knew anything about the timeline on the room.  "I think they said it shouldn't be later than Friday," he ventured.  You think they would've called to tell me this sometime today, considering that I left a note on my bed this morning asking for information.  Of course, I was pretty pissed last night when she and her sons came over to move my dresser and another piece of furniture out of the room.  So maybe they're scared to tell me.  They should be.  I'm f***ing pissed.

And really, really overwhelmed and sad.


I don't know what to say or do.  It's a collision of too many things all at once.  It's draining me.  And I have no place to recharge.  God help me get through this week.

FUDS

Coming home from vacation is hard.  It doesn't help when you remember you forgot your favorite pillow two hours after leaving the beach.  Nor does it help when you're on the last leg of your drive, and your landlady calls to tell you that you need to move everything out of your room by morning so that she can redo the entire ceiling in your bedroom.  "You may need to sleep on the couch for a couple of nights," she told me at one point.  That sentence still echoes in my brain as I write this.

The weekend started exceptionally well.  I took Friday off, and we started the drive in the late morning, arriving in time to play a little volleyball before getting ready for the first night's party.  The weather was perfect, and the Weather Channel promised continued perfection throughout the weekend.  It was just cool enough that the mornings and evenings required sleeves, and warm enough to wear just a bathing suit during the day.  On top of everything, not a single person called me pale at any point during the entire weekend.  This is a beach first for me, and I'd like to give credit where credit is due.  Jergens Natural Glow, you came through for me, and I appreciate it.  Friends, thanks for being nice.

Friday night was the first party, a pre-party of sorts.  There is drinking and dancing, but it's a smaller crowd and there's less raging.  We ran into lots of the people we knew from New Orleans, and each person's face glowed with a combination of excitement and relief. "So glad I'm finally here," someone said.  We all nodded.  After whiling away a few hours on the dance floor, we finally got home and crashed around 1:30am.

Saturday morning started early: 9am.  Bracing against the cool morning wind, we ventured the long walk to the ocean and set up shop along the quarter-mile expanse of volleyball courts temporarily stationed along the beach for the weekend.  I didn't play in the tournament, so I spent the day bouncing back and forth between a co-ed net with people from my room, a men's net with people from our other room, and another men's net with friends from our grass volleyball group.

When I ran into people I knew along the route between these three nets, they would ask "How are y'all doing?"  When I would proceed to tell them about the game-status of the three nets, they would remember that I myself wasn't playing, and I'd have to explain why.  Why, you may also ask, didn't I play, after all this talk of improvement in the sport?  Well, I was lazy.  I didn't really try to put a team together, and when team were being put together (months ago), I wasn't really any good.  So no one asked me to join them.  I didn't say all that, though.  I mostly stuck to the story, "I was on a team, and it fell apart."  True, though selectively so.

Of course, the best part about not playing is the watching.  In addition to the three nets I bounced between, I also spent a good chunk of time in front of the women's main Open net, watching them battle for a higher seed in playoffs, which would be the next day.  Watching Open is always inspiring.  I imagine it's similar to the way little boys feel when they watch pro football games.  I want to do that when I grow up.  The truth is, I'm pretty far from it.  But my coach seems to think I can get there, and I want it, so who knows?  Maybe in a couple of years, I'll get there.

For the last two trips to Fuds, Saturday night has been the climax of the weekend.  We all get dressed up.  We all walk to the party.  We all drink too much.  We all dance for hours.  We all get home later than we probably should, especially considering the important games the following day.

In April, I spent Saturday night dancing with a host of different men, eventually locking lips with one particularly tall and handsome gentleman from Atlanta who I never saw again.  While the almost-guaranteed anonymity of only knowing his first name and current city proved to be a pleasant situation, part of me wondered what it would have been like, had I seen him again or had we spent more time talking.  This time around, I suppose I got my answer.  I danced with one guy in particular for most of the night, someone who I didn't know well before the weekend but who I knew I'd see the next morning.  "Will this be awkward tomorrow?" I asked.  He shrugged.

The answer is, it was a little awkward.  Not obviously so.  While many of our friends witnessed the events of the night, no one uttered a word about it.  No one else made it awkward.  In truth, it was only awkward in my head.  I didn't know how to deal with it.  To make matters worse, I thought that I might actually have liked him a little, but in my experience, what happens on a Saturday night at Fuds is like time in Vegas.  What happens stays.

So I acted cool.  The first time I saw him Sunday morning, I gave a little wave and proceeded to treat him exactly the same way I had the day before.  I didn't know what else to do.  Ask him out?  Make a joke about it?  Make out with him again?

As Sunday morning rolled into Sunday afternoon, the mental awkwardness continued.  We talked a little at points, but we never really mentioned what happened the night before on the dance floor.  In truth, I don't even know if he remembered what happened the night before.  Did I mention that there was a lot of drinking?

There were plenty of things to distract me on Sunday, though.  Every one of our three teams won their first game.  One got to the quarter finals, and another team won second place in their division.  We ended the day with a good seat for the Open finals, playing pick up between matches.  I got sunburned, but I left the beach mostly content.

Sunday night was chill.  Some people had left already, but those that were left hung out in the hot tub.  We ate gumbo at a restaurant next door to our condo.  We went up to one of the condos and drank and talked until midnight.  We went to sleep earlier than any other night.

I woke up Sunday morning with apprehension.  It was time to go home, and I wasn't ready to leave the bubble of happiness and freedom that is Fuds.  As I carried my luggage downstairs to the car, I thought about how great it would be if the tournament happened more often, but then again, maybe six months is just infrequent enough to keep the excitement.  If it happened every weekend, it wouldn't be so fun.  Also, I would be broke and sleep-deprived beyond reason.

The drive home was a quiet one, and getting home, I put all my things in my room and laid on the bed.  I felt exactly the same way I did every summer in college, right after coming home: depressed and in a terrible mood.  I missed my friends.  I missed the fun.  I missed the freedom.

I return to New Orleans with an adult-sized weight on my shoulders and enough insecurities to rival a high school girl.  I'm buying a house.  There's a hole in my bedroom ceiling.  My younger sister just got engaged.  I'm dreading the return to work.  I need to do laundry, I need to go grocery shopping, and I need to unpack, but all I want to do is go back to Florida; I just want to lay under the stars on a cool evening with an attractive man one more time, worrying only about the goosebumps on my arms and the amount of sand in my hair.  But I can't.  For better or for worse, Fuds isn't real life.  It is a short but sweet departure from reality, and in my case, a much needed one.

I don't know what the next couple of months hold for me.  More worries, more adult things, if I had to guess.  But I can confidently say, I will be back in Fort Walton Beach in April.  Fuds, I'm already counting down the days until I see you again.

Being the Nucleus

[Student 1 karate kicks in the air while waiting in line after recess]
Student 2: Stop it!  You're gonna kick me!
Student 1: I don't have to listen to you!
Me: Stop.  I need you to get yourself settled and out of recess mode.  And you do have to listen to me.
Student 3:   Because she's the nucleus! Boom!
Me: What he said.  I'm the boss.

Science metaphors on the recess yard?  My job is done here.


This week has been ridiculous.  I've been working 11+ hour days for the last week to prepare sub plans, to grade everything I can in anticipation of grades being due shortly after I return, and to get things copied and planned early so that I don't return to a shitstorm of work next Tuesday.  Because there is nothing worse than returning from vacation only to suffocate beneath mountains of ungraded exams and papers that have not yet been copied.

Surprisingly, all of this time at work has actually been highly efficient.  Normally, I procrastinate grading at all costs and do everything else instead until I literally can't wait any longer, but I didn't this week.  I suppose that in work-heavy situations, I kick into hyperdrive.  Here are the paper piles I left for the sub.

I'm Type A.  Case in Point.

Simultaneously, I have been grappling with the decision to buy or walk away from this house into which I've been investing time, money, and emotion over the last 3-4 weeks.  After multiple conversations with multiple people, including daily chats with the realtor and a thirty minute conversation with my parents yesterday, I have decided to buy the house.  It may be a little bit of a money suck at the beginning, but I think that in the long run, I'll end up saving money by buying, especially since I expect the house to significantly increase in value between the turning of the neighborhood and the renovations being completed.  There are still four more weeks before I close, but that's okay because I will need the four weeks to get the house appraised, line up bids and contractors, fill out loan paperwork, move around funds, and generally acclimate myself to the idea of being significantly less financially liquid.

I also have to remind myself that there's plenty of things that could go wrong between now and Halloween, and between Halloween and some unknown time in the future when I sell this house.  Because while I may be the boss of my class, and on top of my work, being a homeowner (it seems) is really a game of "When will the next thing stop working?"  Murphy's Law is the nucleus.  I'm just a measly protein, a small piece of the puzzle.

Unsurprisingly, I suppose, I kind of wanted to write about all of this, even though I don't technically have to according to the nonexistent bylaws of the 30 in 30 challenge.  I guess it helps me process.  Maybe it's not the end of the blog as we know it?