Math Kept Me from Going Insane

I like to joke that math hunted me down, took me home, and made me its pet. Math stole me from its rival - language arts.

I never set out to teach math. In fact, had you told my first year teacher self that I would finish out my tenth year of teaching in a mathematics classroom (a junior high level at that), I'm sure I would've asked you for the name of your pharmaceuticals dealer. My rationale for teaching math was not even a selfless one. I started teaching math right when I could no longer tolerate spending my evenings reading the self-righteous drivel written by kids. And, I'm sorry, but that's what they were -- children. Some a year out from voting age; some old enough to give a fu@k but who couldn't muster up the courage necessary to really give a fu@k. Anyway.

I have one of those brains. I can read a billboard at high speed and recite the phone number. I see patterns in license plates. I'm probably one complex breakdown away from being the guy in that Gwyneth Paltrow movie, Proof. And for most of my life, I hid how my brain works. I hid how much stuff I really knew so that I wouldn't be perceived as brilliant. It sounded too big; it carried an unnamed responsibility. Brilliant meant that I would have to be that smart all the time. It doesn't work that way, though.

The first time I heard someone call me brilliant, I cringed. A girl a few years behind me in high school was looking at her friend's senior yearbook. Mike and the girl were going page by page in the yearbook seeing which friends they had in common. The girl told me that when he got to my picture, he said, "that's Diana; she's brilliant!" The girl would eventually know me through a guy we would both date (me first, then her). When her boyfriend mentioned me in conversation, she said, "hey, that's that brilliant girl Mike knows." I know this because she showed up at the photography studio I was working at in college, convinced my boss that she knew me so he would let her into the back studio, and proceeded to tell me, "my boyfriend said you were really smart, but I was hoping you wouldn't be pretty, too." She found out I was both. :)

I know for a fact that I love math. I love that the patterns work every.single.time. I love that when I "had my crazy" (my way of explaining much of 2010 and 2011), I always had math to keep me grounded. Math always strives to outsmart you, to make you question your own capabilities, to make you wonder if the answer is even a pursuit worth pursuing. I can say for a fact that every math formula I taught during that year of crazy kept me tethered to reality. It offered me some of the only truths I could find when I was filing for the divorce. It kept me sane.

I like that when the answers get too complicated for Algebra, Calculus takes over. In my brain, math always looks like this. Except I'm completely lacking the pink smiling stick figure. I'm totally going to put her in my lesson plans for next year.

Now Stop, Woo, Now Wiggle It

Yesterday, when I picked up Ava from the go-back-home-to-your-mom-after-spending-48-hours-with-your-dad meeting spot (I could do a whole blog post on the negotiations that had to take place for us to agree on one location that was somewhat equidistant between my house and the place he lives...I think I even said at one point, "No, we cannot meet there...that's practically the ghetto!"), I had the radio on. I wasn't really paying attention to what was playing, it was really just on for background noise. After Ava got into the car (right as I was assuring myself that I wasn't dreaming when my ex-husband leaned across his truck and smiled and said, "Happy Mother's Day."...it actually shocked me. And yes, I now know that if you just let go of being mad at someone for their asinine choices, the baby Jesus and the universe will collude to make that person be extra-nice to you. That's my explanation anyway...either that or he had a mental break...which I'm not yet ready to rule out!), she asked me to turn up the radio as she started to sing along.

I'm not too proud to admit that my daughter knows all the words to "Get Low". Um, the unedited version. I'd like to say that I could blame her father for this one, but nope, this one's on me. I downloaded the song for a road trip a few years ago and didn't realize that the dirty version was hella dirty. Yeah. I make winning Mother of the Year sometimes completely unattainable.

I've often said that I am living Sandra Bullock's life (or she's living mine...for which I'd like to say, "seriously so sorry about 2010!")...we both married men that were completely the opposites of us, we had a shocking revelatory moment in 2010 in which we realized that our marriages would not continue for one more day, and we both sometimes end up chanting to the window to the wall with no thought of appropriateness.

Granted, she can qualify that it was her character in The Proposal that was actually doing the chanting; whereas, I can only blame the prom DJ in May of 2005 when I stopped dancing with my other chaperon friends, turned to the senior boy next to me, and shouted into his ear over the din of the music, "what the hell did he just say?" as the DJ shouted into the mic along with the song.

I'll not provide the lyrics. A simple google search will suffice. Just know that yesterday, when the song played in the car, my daughter smiled and said, "mom, it's kinda sad that I know that this isn't the real song!" Then she laughed and filled in all the appropriate cussing and references that the radio version lacked.

She does make her momma awfully proud!

That's the Kind of People We Are

Let's be people who have given up Diet Coke once and for all...or let's kinda try.

Let's be people who have refrigerators stocked with sliced watermelon and cantaloupe.

Let's be people who remember to re-containerize the watermelon into smaller and smaller containers as it is eaten, or at least, let's be people who can laugh when we open the fridge and see three lonely pieces of watermelon sitting in a huge container that was once full.

Let's be people who will blame the child when this happens.

Let's be people who scream in the middle of our classroom when our sister shows up on a Friday afternoon...the same sister that lives in California...the same sister that surprised us last July...completely unexpectedly and filming the whole thing on her iPhone.

Let's be people who never forget that our small family (whether gutted by absent parents or an unexpected divorce) is a perfect family.

Let's be people who drive over an hour to a vintage flea market while yelling at the mapquest app we've nicknamed Talking Tina, "would you please shutthefu@kup?!?" as she drones on about streets we passed miles ago all the while declaring that Tina is a stupid, nagging bitch.

Let's be people who see all the fantastic vintage finds and turn to our sister and say, "you know, whatever you buy, you're gonna have to drag up that hill by yourself!" 'cause we're real like that.

Let's be people who drop everything for family...even if it means that our best friend might get upset because plans made in advance have to be canceled at the last minute so that our sister gets our undivided attention.

Let's be people who know that our friendships cannot be decimated by a change of plans.

Let's be people who after watching a Kandee Johnson video about ombré highlights turn to our sister and say, "you can totally do that to my hair."

Let's be people who can look at our now two-toned hair and declare, "it looks very salon-y."

Let's be people who don't stress out about a hair debacle and simply drive to Target to get a box of Garnier to even out the color.

Let's be people who brave the crowds, take our daughter to see Avengers on its extremely popular opening weekend, somehow bypass the theater greeter with our Starbucks drink in hand, and celebrate a little as we eat our bagels while watching the 9am showing.

Let's be people who completely freak out when a windstorm rips the passenger door out of our daughter's hand resulting in a dented fender, a cracked door hinge, and a phone call to a guy that starts with the words, "we're in emergency status over here!"

Let's be people who remember to thank the baby Jesus when the same guy drives over at 8pm to look at the car door, asks for a pry bar (which we have!), and fixes the door enough so that it stops swinging like a saloon gate.

Let's be people who when plans to meet up have to be changed respond with "I'll come up with a suitable consequence" and mean it.

Let's be people who stay up late texting, wake up with a crick in our neck from falling asleep on propped up pillows, and text that friend with "my neck hurts and I am blaming you."

Let's be people who remember to be thankful in all things...not necessarily for all things...but in all things, we will find something to be thankful for.

my follies :: may

I failed to blog my April follies and I forgot that as a woman, I have power.

fail*fail*fail*fail*fail*fail*fail*fail*fail

I can make a man laugh, think, smile, imagine, pound his hand in frustration, and/or stare just by being me. I was reminded in April that a confident woman runs her own life. And that is amazing. 

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately (not that I don't spend a great deal of my time everyday thinking...seriously, I teach teenagers math -- I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking!) about things. Things that have changed in the last year. Things that have stayed the same. Things that make sense. Things that will never make sense. Things that are bound to make sense someday. Things that I have that I don't want anymore. Things that I want to buy. Things that I want to do. It's all these things.

I've come to realize that not everyone evolves. Not everyone is introspective. Not everyone wants to be better than who they are today. Or 14 years ago. Not everyone sees that we must change and improve and compromise and give up the ghost on some of our dreams of being a lawyer or skinny or married. And that we're better for it. Or at least okay.

To be honest, I am way better than okay. And there is absolutely no failure in that!