Absent--for three days--Mindedness

I haven't posted on this for three days. Not because something has happened, or something didn't happen, not because I didn't think about it. But, like what typically happens when I start something and think about it a lot--I just didn't get around to it again. I checked FaceBook thirty times, and I checked my email, but I didn't get on here to blog.

I love to start things and leave them. I hate finishing things--not that you can exactly finish a blog, but I don't follow through with things either. When I was growing up, my dad told me I was a dawddler. I never hustled or got into a hurry. Even now when someone needs something quickly from they store, I don't go by myself, lest I lose track of time. I'm not sure what gets me off the path; sometimes I catch myself staring off into space not thinking about anything in particular. Then I'm frazzled and I speed up to make up for the lost time. That's when I forget things. I forget chocolate chips for some cookies, or I forget the milk for the cereal. I have gone to the store only needing a loaf of bread, and come back with everything but. Does this happen to other pepople? If it doesn't is there help for people like me out there?

Raising Ryan

The more I stew about this, the angrier I get. And not the kind of angry where I yell and throw a fit. This is the kind of angry where I have to come to terms with the ways things are. In another life, I was the older sister of a brother who thought he had it all together. He had plans to major in film studies, and he made fun of me for getting bad grades in high school. Ryan always knew better than everyone, and he had the confidence of a UFC prize fighter.

We weren't best friends when our mom died, and he was blindsided by it. Two days before she passed away, we were standing in the kitchen screaming at each other. He told me to leave everything so Mom could fix it, and I told him she might not make it home. Not to finish the laundry. Not to make dinner. Not to dispense advice, smoke a cigarette, laugh with us, or hold us up as we cried. Not ever again. He didn't or maybe couldn't believe me. Had he pretended the cancer was gone? Did he think the aggressive chemo and the drug induced coma were positive signs? We didn't talk about it. We still haven't talked about it almost seven years later.

When she died, the threads that held us together unraveled, and we stopped talking once a day. Then once a week. Then we only spoke on our birthdays. I called him, and he would act as though we had just spoken yesterday. School is going well, I'm finishing up my general courses, I saw Spider Man 2 yesterday. All of these niceties to fill the obligatory ten minutes of birthday talk. Sometimes less. We always ended with, call me sometime or let's get together soon.

Last year, I called him a month after his birthday, and I invited him to dinner. I cooked, we chatted, and so began a new phase of our relationship. Over the next few weeks I get to know this new person my little brother has become without our mother, as an adult. I don't know that I like who he has become. Void of motivation, unsure of what he wants--who isn't sometimes? I understand not having a stable force in your life to guide you to the path you should be on. We all meander and feel depressed sometimes. So Witt and I helped straighten him out. We'll pay for your classes, we'll help you do your laundry so you don't wear filthyclothes, we'll feed you, we'll counsel you, we'll parent you, so you can get your life in order.

Yesterday, he calls and when I ask about class, I get the same reaction I would have on a birthday call. He says he hasn't gone. He's been tired. And I stay calm and explain to him that the deal he agreed to meant that he had to pass his classes. It meant that he needed to work on bettering himself so he could be happier. And instead he hasn't gone to class because he was tired.

So now, I'm stuck with this feeling of anger. How can I proceed? It's taken me almost a year to realize this, but I'm not his mom. I can't fix everything for him and make this go away. Even if I was his mom, I couldn't force him to change. I am tremendously blessed right now with an exciting career, a wonderful home, a beautiful marriage, two glorious dogs, and the hope of starting a family. And the person who grew up with me down the hall is wasting time working at a dead-end job, living in a sparse apartment, avoiding his phone for fear of credit collection. I love him, but I can't jump in his life and fix it. No matter how much he wants me to. No matter how much I sometimes wish I could. But today I don't wish I could at all. I wish I could call my mom.

Ben Rankin Wins Second in Mayoral Contest

I never thought I would so caught up in the politics of the fourth grade, but this morning as I was trying to figure out what to wear and what I would do in eighth hour, I fleetingly wondered how the election went for Ben. Laura made buttons for the fourth graders to wear featuring a Monopoly looking like character with a top hat. The buttons read "Vote Ben Mayor of Exchange City."

This morning Laura describes ten-year-old Ben almost in tears at Prime Time. He got second, he had wailed. "How do you know you got second?" Laura asks with a bit of hesitation. He explains they had to do a run off against him and Lauren. I don't know Lauren, but apparently she's athletic which translates to popular at the ever exclusive Wanda Gray.

I was beaming for Ben's second place win. That second place win is a first place win, considering he isn't one of the exclusive athletic kids, and prefers books to almost everything else. One strike for bookworms and smart kids across the nation. My fourth grade heart swells inside my almost thirty-year-old body.

The More You Eat, The Less It Will Look Like a Fish, BIG

Last night, after a long Monday teaching and getting mid quarter grades ready, I find myself willing to go to Thai House for dinner. Maybe it was because I had stolen Witt's car keys. Maybe it was because I misplaced his wallet, and I felt guilty. Maybe it was because I felt bad that we hadn't been there for about two weeks, and it's his favorite restaraunt. The reason, insignificant.

After months of trying Pad Thai (too sweet and sticky--why isn't this a dessert?) and Two Best Friends (I don't care how close shrimp and chicken are, they should have a thicker sauce to liven them up), I look at the specials board to see fried Tilapia with garlic sauce. A sucker for Tilapia and garlic, I choose this dish--embarking on a safe adventure--fish meets garlic, fish and garlic meet mouth, then stomach. Life can't get better.

The waitress held the platter away from her body as she manuvered through the tables and chairs to get to our table, and when I saw her look down at the plate, she grimaced, ever-so-slightly. She set the plate before me, and I said thank you. Maybe it was my imagination, but she barely looked at me, then spun on her heel and went back to the kitchen.

Witt and I saw the fish together. Then we looked back at the board and saw the word "whole" next to the Tilapia, as though it had just been written there. Whole. Two beady fish eyes covered with crispy breading and chunky garlic sauce don't stop the creepy feeling that the fish is staring at you with all of the intensity of Bambi. Tears didn't come to my eyes, but I almost wanted them to so Witt would say, you don't have eat it, just order something else. Instead, a small shrug, Witt says "well, look at it this way: the more you eat, the less it will look like a fish."

I made two discoveries. Number one: if a steak had the face of a cow or bacon had the face of a pig, I wouldn't eat them. Number two: even though the fish face was difficult to get past, I love the garlic sauce at Thai House. I bet it tastes great on chicken.