I think I'm turning stupid.

“I’m just so excited to have time to read again, you know? Like, stuff I really want to read, not stuff  I have to read.”

I can’t tell you how many times I said this in college. I can’t tell you how many of my peers have vigorously agreed with that statement, or how many times I have heard the same variation on a theme. Now that I am no longer in school, and not working a job that demands every last piece of my time, energy and, brain I theoretically have this free time to read the whole library.

Have I?

Hardly.

I haven’t finished a book for my book club since I joined. Most of my kindle library books expire before I even view them. Anything that requires more than 2 brain cells to process immediately gets an eye roll as I reach for my Roku remote, or iPhone. Since it is No Shame November round these parts, I will tell you all the only thing I have read of late is 50 Shades of Grey, for the second time. (writing about that is, to borrow a metaphor, “Like shooting fish in a mug with an automatic handgun.”)

I’ll get back on the literary horse eventually - but right now it’s been stabled for more personal writing. (see what I did there?)

So those of you who come here to read about books, it could be a while. You’ll have to pacify yourselves with stories of my own shortcomings, personal humiliations, and neurosis. You’ll also probably have to read a lot about my diabetes - the former and the latter are part and parcel.

Because Mondays are never hard enough on their own...

Those who know me would probably not be surprised by the statement, “before noon today I was on the kitchen floor, crying over a yogurt.”

The therapist I saw in high school made the seemingly innocuous statement, “you’re not really a crier, are you?” while I sobbed over the pressure of managing my diabetes. I never went back. partially because at 17 I wasn’t exactly responsible enough to make my own regular appointments, and partially because she was right. With the gaping exception of movies, the number of people who had seen me cry before the end of college was limited to what I could count on one hand. I could pinpoint the day in October of 2012 that I became a crier but that’s another classroom story for another time. Couple with the new birth control combo I was trying, I became the crier my therapist told me I wasn’t. Bathroom breaks, lunch, anytime NPR was on, the wine aisle of the grocery store, Chipotle, I burst into tears just about anywhere. In fact, I’m pretty sure most of Saint Louis has seen me fighting back tears, or not fighting them at all, somewhere.

So there’s a portion of you, not at all surprised by the statement, “before noon today I was on the kitchen floor crying over a yogurt.”

Let me tell you, there is nothing worse, as someone who does cry over spilled milk, to cry over dairy products because you have low blood sugar. Waking up cranky with high blood sugar ranks among the worst experiences ever. Even with the careful control and management I don’t regularly practice blood sugar can spike because it feels like it, because you didn’t count the carbs in your chinese food right, or you forgot that MSG sends your blood sugar through the roof. When you manage it less well high spikes are not uncommon. Really bad ones make me feel like Bruce Banner, seconds before he bursts out of those sweet purple shorts he seems to have an infinite supply of. The fact that my spell check lights up like a christmas tree on emails is enough to make me want to hurl the nearest object straight through the screen on my computer.

Fixing a high generally leads to a low, especially when you are impatient and cranky and up your insulin dose in an effort to make it fall faster (pro tip - this never works). This is how you end up standing in your kitchen, trying to find something to up the low blood sugar you have inadvertently given yourself. Low blood sugar, much like airports and hearing other people passive aggressively bicker, makes me anxious, indecisive, whiny, incapable, and utterly useless. Given the carte blanche to eat anything in the kitchen in an effort to raise said low blood sugar the choices are overwhelming. I spend more time worrying about what to eat, while my heart races, and I feel like I just want to lie in a fetal position on the floor until everything is fixed.

Sensing that this was about to happen today around 11:30, I thought I would head this off at the pass, and just eat right away, avoiding the low that was sure to happen. As a low is wont to do, it made me mopey and indecisive. Literally nothing, not even the discount halloween Peeps nesting in my pantry looked edible. Oscillating between fridge and pantry for a full 10 minutes, I finally decided on yogurt and granola. Every minute spent deciding on a snack renders closer to a useless puddle of tears. Since I am pretty much always 5 minutes away from bursting into a useless puddle of tears, lows are basically my nemesis. The struggle to get the yogurt lid off, then open the new package of granola took another 3 full minutes - in the incompetence produced my my quickly falling sugar. Finally securing a spoon, and the yogurt, and the granola, I faced the next dilemma - the granola chunks were too big to fit into the small mouth of the yogurt container. This was how I ended up sitting on the floor, holding a spoon full of yogurt, and a bag of granola. Low blood sugar has the added effect of reducing what ever brain cells are still firing to half speed. Moments away from tears I looked from the spoon to the granola thinking I had to find a way. Inspiration struck with neurons firing on half capacity, I decided that, yes, I COULD put the spoon in the granola! Surely the granola would stick to the yogurt and I would get a perfect spoonful of both yogurt and granola. For those of you who didn’t see that coming, let me tell you, that is not at all how it worked. The yogurt quickly spilled into the granola, leaving me with a bag now growing soggy and unusable with berry cheesecake yogurt. This, being the metaphorical straw to break the camels back, I did what any reasonable diabetic  would do, I sobbed into my already soggy granola and reached for the orange juice.

Boots is an incredibly judgemental roommate.

Elementary school bathrooms are my own personal hell.

Elementary school bathrooms are my own personal hell.

Not because they are always stuffy, and too hot. Not because the toilets are roughly half the size of a normal toilet and make you feel like an awkward giant. Not even because they always smell like pee, and always have a clogged toilet. No, until you have run a bathroom break for an entire second grade class, you have no idea how much your own personal hell can be elevated.

The many games of “will it flush?,” countless clogged pipes, and one small trash can fire will all live on as outer rings of my own personal hell. Yes, one of my second graders set a trashcan fire in the bathroom. No, it was not the worst elementary bathroom experience of my life. No, that accolade is reserved for what what I would like to call my most personally and professionally humiliating moment - but we all know this is only scratching the surface there.

Wrangling nineteen second graders to the bathroom is not an easy task when they lack any and all respect for you. How or why we got to said lack of respect is irrelevant, but the point is there was nothing I dreaded more than taking my class into the hallways. This task was complicated further by one of my favorite students, a special needs student who required near constant support. This bathroom break wasn’t going any better or worse than any other bathroom break. I had taken them to the bathrooms by the office, in hopes that proximity to the principals office would cast a pallor of decorum. In the end, as the one who ended up getting reprimanded, I can say it was a complete failure of a plan.

It’s the waiting for other classmates to use the restroom that really gets them going. When everyone has to go, no one wants to wait until last and there is a modicum of good behavior. Waiting for everyone else once you have had your turn though? That’s when kids get really squirrely. I had a class full of runners - the type to bolt. Especially given an open hallway. Naturally a pack of my boys started running around, including Akim, this favorite of mine. Knowing this was going nowhere good and fast, I made an effort to speed the last few stragglers through the bathroom. While pacing the increasingly loud hallway, making some semblance at giving directions that would be followed, I see Akim come running down the hallway, holding something out in his open palm.

It was a urinal cake. He was holding a used urinal cake. He skidded to an abrupt stop in front of me to ask what it was. I’m not sure whether it was the overwhelming nature of the shock, dread, and disgust or what that led me to tell him it was a urinal cake.

“Cake?” he asked as drew the urine soaked mint green round closer to his open mouth, as if to take a bite.

“NO. no, not that kind of cake.” I said as I put my open palm out, realizing I would be forced to take it from him. Upon realizing it was not a Little Debbie snack Akim dropped it right away and took off running. The rest of the class, oblivious to exchange had now grown to a dull roar and drawn the attentions of the principal, who was now standing in the hallway behind me, wearing his 3 piece denim suit in all its bellbottomed glory. Turning to face Mr.Taylor, urinal cake still in hand, and look of revulsion still on my face, I realized this wasn’t going to make things better.

“Miss Holdreith, you really need to get your class under control. I think its time you take them back to the room now.”

Back to class I went, urinal cake STILL in hand, no more quietly or orderly than we had arrived.

If my personal statements for grad school were really honest

Most schools want a 500 word essay on why you want to go into their program, and I don’t have the energy for institutional game playing or the interest in gushing about what I think they want to hear; so I’ve decided to write some honest personal statements.

“My desire to return to graduate school stems from a deep desire to retreat from the real world as much as humanely possible. Working a 9 to 5 desk job has been a soul sucking, mind numbing, and spirit murdering endeavor. I am convinced I will never find a job I enjoy, and the one small beacon of hope is this program. That being said, I am assured even with this degree I will still hate my job, and be coupled with crippling student debt. Yet here I am, willing to pay tuition and fees and apply my degree in a relevant field. Perhaps I will even apply said degree to achieve moderate local success, and I will plug your program as “life changing, personally challenging and a wonderful foundation for getting where I am.” Is that what you want me to say in this box?”

“Just like everyone else writing one of these, I too have a desire to change the world. You’ll even note I made an attempt at that my first year out of college. However, as you will also note my time teaching in the inner city was a complete and total failure. This time before I attempt to change the world I would love to have even a modicum of relevant training before being thrown to the wolves. My research indicates that your 2 year degree plan would more than provide me with tools, knowledge, and resources to actually, you know, be successful in any future world changing endeavors.”

“I am entirely bored out of mind at my job. To get a job in a field where I hope I won’t be bored out of my mind, I am told I need this degree and several years of relevant experience. Please let me in, my cat is so incredibly bored of arguing about policy issues with me. I think he might leave if I don’t find a more productive outlet for it.”

“I actually enjoyed reading microfilm of the congressional record concerning education policy in the US. As a member of what I’m sure is an unbelievably exclusive club here, I’m looking to make this into a career. Library science requires I keep far too quiet so, here I am.”

“I work in enrollment, I hear people tell me 500 times a day they want to go into teaching because they love kids. I promise you, I’m not here to go into policy because I love politicians, or constituents. I’ll be totally transparent here, and say I have every intention of climbing whatever ranks I can to enact as much iron clad policy that aligns with my personal position as possible. Acting in the spirit of my personal political hero, Alexander Hamilton, I seek to build a quasi-monarchical but still democratic system. Give a girl a boost onto that first rung?”

“Oddly enough the internet is flooded with seemingly witty tech savvy bloggers who think they have something original to say about popular culture. Saturated markets don’t make a great opportunity for another mildly amusing, neurotic, Carrie Bradshaw/Lena Dunham wanna be. However, I hear very few 20 something women of this persuasion want to go into politics, niche market anyone? I really don’t think Monica Lewinski used her position to anyone's advantage. I plan to use mine much more resourcefully.”

Ready Player One - Ernest Cline

I have to admit, reading Ready Player One, was a new experience for me. A very niche subject matter - 80’s pop culture, mostly video games - with a post-apocalyptic flavor and a twist of expected teen romance; it was predictable enough to keep from tearing through it at light speed for plot alone, but interesting enough to keep me reading through some severely slow moving and self pitying stretches. Not sure I liked it enough to keep it up, but too intrigued to put it away for good, it played out a lot like an over eager date - there’s nothing overtly wrong with the dude, but do you really wanna go on date number 3? In either case, nosy neighbor that I am the answer is yes. Unlike going on that 3rd date, I think the payoff here was worth it. (Much less guilt plays out in the end).

The first date is great - not spectacular mind you, but conversation keeps up and despite it all you find yourself excited about it. Even walking away from it, you know definitely nailed it, and he thinks you’re great. Despite it all, something is nagging at you. You have enough in common but you can’t shake the uncertainty . It’s exciting to bust out of a rut, to be free of sad whiny teenagers who won’t talk about their feelings. Right away Cline’s set up feels just like this. A slow build that pulls you in out of curiosity for what's to come, rather than having hooked you already. You even stay a half an hour later than planned - the dishes can wait another day. While not the first thing on your mind, the idea of a second date hangs in the back of your mind, giving you reason to smile throughout your work day.

Getting into the puzzle that the book presents is date two. Pleasantries and “oh what did you major in?” are out of the way, so you can get down to what is really important things - as in did he just catch that Clueless reference? Or “oh you don’t like 30 Rock? hmmm.” You can’t really put your finger on anything wrong, in fact stepping back everything looks great in perspective. The book introduces elements of romance, a really good bad guy, a quest, suspense, and obviously all the 80’s trivia a girl could hope for. I could not shake the feeling while reading that I was missing something though, beyond just the video game references.
Despite that feeling you keep going until you taper off at a point where the going gets slow. The electricity you though might be there is less the humming of a bug zapper and more the sad sparks of a dying, slightly damp firework. Cline has a lot of these moments (Just like date two. More of a fizzle than a bang. Actually.) where the going feels like quicksand. The action is well written enough that it certainly wasn't enough to stop me from reading, but my enjoyment of the book felt somehow retrained.

Date three is the big one. The point where things pick back up, or you find yourself alone sharing a low fat yogurt with your cat for dinner on a Saturday. (Boots says: One one paw I want the whole yogurt to myself, on the other I don’t want to share my hooman. LIFE IS SO HARD. I think I’ll just settle for chewing on someones toes). Gearing up for the end of Cline’s book was enjoyable enough - most of the loose ends are knotted up neatly (no thanks to you, Boots). Friendships re-bonded, battles won, grail quest wrapped up, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Up through dates 1 and 2 things feel slightly unpredictable. Nothing was going terribly awry, yet nothing was going spectacularly well. Back on the date, everything finds itself on an even keel, which compared to the chaos of the rest of your life, is pretty enjoyable. Until you realize you are stuck and always will be stuck at an even keel. Cline’s book plateaus in the last third - becoming easily predictable, as if coasting on an even track, whereas the first 2/3rd really keep you slightly more on your toes. Thank god books end, and you don’t have to consider a 4th dates because lord knows I would be the whore of Babylon were that the case. I’m real book slut, I can barely stick to one I really love, let alone when it’s only getting a lukewarm reception.

It ends much as you would expect, as you've been suspecting, since the peak of the action. This book definitely left something to be desired - just like dates 4, 5, 6, etc. will if you end up on them, until you check out enough that he breaks it off with you. It is only after you google the book reviews over a glass of wine - or tell your girlfriends over brunch that its over, that you realize you were right all along. Until someone tells you that nagging instinct that something could be a lot better, it’s easy to settle into an even keel. That being said, this is a finite novel and not some guy you met on the internet. It was a nice change of pace from what I have been reading, with witty writing, and some pretty strong female characters.

Boots says: As much as I like to sink my teeth into a good book, I'm glad the human read this on a kindle. It means more room for me to smother mom, and a free hand to scratch my ears. It also means my fleshy servant eats and reads at the same time, which means less careful guarding to the dairy products.

The Spy Misteress - Jennifer Chiaverini

Readers, beware the “Buy 2 Get 1 Free” table at Barnes + Nobel. I know, I know, I feel it’s allure too - neat stacks of paperbacks, intriguing covers that call out “pick me! read me!,” and most irresistible of all getting that free book. The table is at its most dangerous when you don’t have a plan, when there is no goal, no target to be acquired. While you are just browsing it seems to inch its way right in front of you, offering a wide selection without overwhelming you like the shelves do. I am here to tell you it’s all a ruse. 30% of those books make the “Most hated High School reads” list, and the other 60% are there to be off loaded onto unsuspecting customers. They don’t live there because they are the most popular girl at the dance. These books are Anthony Michael Hall’s of the store - always the one left without a love interest, kinda cute if you squint, and usually a total saltine (plain, dry, and boring).

This is how I found myself dawdling through "The Spy Mistress." Nestled between the hits of 2004, and Catch 22, it’s subtitle “Inspired by a true story of civil war espionage” was enough to pull this history nerd in for the kill.

"The Spy Mistress" is The Other Boleyn Girl’s plain and humble stepsister. It has all the potential in the world to be full of suspense, steamy intrigue, and super hot civil war soldiers (Seriously, check  it   out). Instead it took cues from OJ’s “If I’d Done It” and detailed a very believable account of Elizabeth Van Lew’s involvement in espionage for the North during the Civil War. If you are a respectable person looking for a less boring version of an aside in your 11th grade history book; or someone who neither has 14 hours and the emotional fortitude to watch Ken Burns’ “The Civil War” I would recommend this book. As a character of ill repute, and someone looking for smutty intrigue this book was not what expected. I probably wouldn't read it again even if it were the only reading material available to me as prisoner of war in Fort Sumter.

Elizabeth Van Lew - a spinster in her 30s because her betrothed and true love died of some lameo virus like influenza or something - lives with her mother in Richmond. Initially outspoken, compassionate, and possessed of strong convictions and Union sympathies, I had high hopes that Elizabeth would be the hero I wanted. Alas, she is mostly a whiner, who happens to accomplish some pretty brave things. She and her mother live off her father's fortune left to them under the condition that the family slaves cannot be freed. The family slaves are described as deeply loving and devoted to their masters and perfectly content to stay - particularly when faced with Elizabeth’s many apologies for the conditions of the will. It is also oft mentioned that Elizabeth and her mother pay their slaves, there is no condition of the will preventing this, so they’re basically just servants, which is cool dudes. EXCEPT THAT IT IS NOT AT ALL.

Elizabeth carefully builds an underground network of Union sympathizers to get information in and out of Richmond. She uses the disregard for her station as a southern woman to charm and bribe her way into the local prison in order to exchange information with the Union soldiers being held prisoner. The Confederate officials, who are really due no kind light, are painted simply as exhausted and confused men. They are easily plied by Elizabeth’s pleas to treat the Union soldiers in the good faith that the good ladies of the North are doing the same for their boys. Essentially, without flat out saying so saying it, Chiaverini characterizes the Confederate men as compassionate foot soldiers who are just following orders. Many a valiant escape is organized by Van Lew and her underground spy network, which returns many a man back to Union soil. Somehow, though a foolproof method of transporting people North is devised, it seems to be used exclusively for white people. The only black people who show up in the novel are the slaves belonging to the Van Lew family, and as is said many times, they feel too much love and loyalty to even think of leaving. Again, it’s totally cool bros, the slaves are choosing this, so it’s okay. Their owners are just that nice, they want to stay and serve them forever.

Issues of historical lens and race aside, this book presents an interpretation of the few facts and sources of information we have regarding Elizabeth Van Lew, a real woman who took on crazy risks to support the Union, and has faced her own fair share of unflattering portrayal through the years. Chiaverini spends a lot of time in Van Lew’s head - lamenting the war and Confederate sympathies, planning an escape -  and plenty of quiet moments biding time in the Van Lew mansion. As a lover of history, particularly antebellum and Civil War America I made it through out of personal interest - rather than really loving the book. History nerds out there who enjoy reading with a critical lens, and soccer moms looking for a book club book read away. The rest of you should really just gird your emotional loins and sit down to watch Ken Burns’ The Civil War. It will take you roughly the same amount of time as trudging through this book and you will walk away a better educated person.

Don't leave your keys in the door, you never know who might find them

Having a house to yourself is pretty much EXACTLY like Risky Business as far as I am concerned. No roommates, no pants, no volume control, and certainly no manners or normal niceties observed. The summer after my first year of teaching, in a matter of a week I went from having a full classroom and a house full of roommates to living completely alone. It was amazing. Not to suggest that I feel anything but affection for my former students or house mates, just to say that after a year of near constant people, having a whole to floors to myself was a glorious luxury. I found a job as a swim instructor, ensuring I never really had to wear pants ( a life long dream come true), and there was no one to scold me for drinking my wine right out of the bottle (really, why get a glass dirty when you’re not even sharing?).

Living the bachelor pad dream, I spent entire weekends without speaking to anyone but the delivery guy, and entire evenings on the couch with nothing but Det. Elliot Stabler and a bottle of wine for company. All done, of course, while wearing pants as infrequently as possible.

With no attempting to eat urinal cakes, or jump out classroom windows on my watch, no one out to steal my keys to try and lock me out of the classroom, I let my personal awareness float away in a haze of chlorine and sunscreen. The keys thing though, is an issue for me even when I am on alert (there’s a reason teachers actually wear lanyards - they’re not just for college freshmen). I was on a first name basis with the campus security force in college because I locked myself out so frequently, and my roommate Jo got on average 3 texts a week asking if she knew where I had left my keys. So it should come as no surprise that I have a bad habit of leaving them in the door once I unlock it. The house I was living in was not in the best of shape, the was funky and the lock even funkier. When shuffling a pool bag, groceries, a couple books, and a towel getting inside the door was no small accomplishment; this frequently led to me dropping everything on the stairs, yelling at the door, finally getting it open, throwing all my things onto the landing and storming up the long flight of stairs to the kitchen. You’ll note that nowhere in this melodrama do I remember to yank the keys out of the door. Living with roommates, someone generally comes through the door yelling at you about leaving your keys in the door (again) and all is (mostly) well. Living alone, you have no such luxury.

Not long into my summer of solitude I left my keys hanging in the top lock. Dried out and eaten alive by pool chemicals, I couldn’t wait to take a shower, and stay dry for a full 12 hours. In my haste to feel human again my keys slipped my mind. 45 minutes later, I was well settled into the couch, watching Law and Order reruns with my dear friend Charles Shaw, in what had become my go to loungewear, underwear and a tee shirt. although I like to pretend my life is a sitcom, I don’t have a highly paid stylist to make sure that I look adorable even when I should be disheveled and gross - I just look disheveled and gross. Following the iconic “dun dun” or Law & Order I hear a door rattling and commotion. Assuming its the opening to the horrific crime about to be tried, I thought little of it until it seemed to be getting louder. The rattling and pounding of the  door stopped and the shouting sounded less like TV and more like someone in my house. There is nothing quite like an SVU marathon to make you fear the worst. Jumping up, wine bottle in hand I stuck my head around the door frame of the living room to peek out over the landing of the stairs. Hearing the still indistinct shouts even louder I approached the top of the stairs. Standing on the top step, dressed in nothing but an oversized college tee shirt and underwear (definitely not the cute ones either) armed with a bottle of 3 buck Chuck I found myself face to face with our downstairs neighbor who was rattling my keys and yelling in an attempt NOT to scare me as he returned them. Frozen to my spot - thankful it was not a serial killer, but I’d like to see any of you react quickly to the guy downstairs materializing in your apartment while you are pantless - I had nothing to say.

In what I can only assume was an attempt to be witty he said;

“Looks like I have a new car!”

Still startled, I must have looked confused because he clarified it was a joke, and he was just there to return the keys he’d seen in the door. Gathering the few wits I could I grabbed the keys and thanked him.  Before closing the door behind him, Mr. Downstairs turns around and says, “Come over anytime, I’d love to hang out.”

Judging you so harshly right now. - Boots