Fluid Pudding

Do you remember five years back when you helped me choose an outfit for my twenty year high school reunion? And then I actually WENT to the reunion and experienced Sweet Victory when I found that the girl who didn’t like me in high school is now a horribly mundane Poison lyric dancer?

My 25th high school reunion is coming up on Saturday. (Tupac Shakur died when he was 25. It’s really weird to think that I graduated from high school an entire Tupac Shakur ago!)

Will I be attending my reunion on Saturday? I will not. (I just spent nearly twenty minutes trying to type out WHY I won’t be attending, but an explanation that includes phrases like “pitiable purple sequins” and “me with my terrible eye contact” and “the drunks just get drunkier” isn’t really a nice explanation, and if you don’t have something nice to say, well, Pitiable Purple Sequins it is, and Pitiable Purple Sequins it goes, Bambi.)

Let’s get sidetracked! The Tour de Fleece is happening right now, which means spinners from around the world are making yarn as bicyclists are racing around France.

Do you want to see what I’ve completed so far? Do you? If you stick around, I’ll reward you with my 1988 senior photo! I will!

Here goes.

264 yards of fingering weight (also known as sock weight) BFL/silk along with a mini-skein made while I practiced chain plying.

Also, 610 yards of lace weight (or maybe light fingering) Polwarth. This is the best yarn I’ve made, and I need to once again give a shout out to Tempe for explaining fractal spinning to me.

What’s currently on the wheel, you ask? Sock weight Cormo!

I’ve gathered you here today to talk about how it’s time to heal our women, be real to our women, and if we don’t we’ll have a race of babies that will hate the ladies that make the babies. Keep ya head up, Tupac.

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I moved into this Stewart Road apartment at the beginning of my second senior year. I was 22 years old and had recently met with my advisor to tell her that I STILL didn’t know what I wanted to study in school. (I had already changed my major six times—piano performance, communications, elementary education, industrial psychology, nutrition, and nursing. Sometimes these were official changes in an office. Sometimes they were done in my head just because I was so embarrassed about my desultoriness. So many interests! Impossible to choose just one!) She studied my class history and grades, sighed, and said, “I can get you out of here in a year with a degree in Psychology and an area of concentration in Religion. Anything else will take more time.” Psychology it was and psychology it is! With an area of concentration in religion!

This apartment was my Final Year apartment. This was the place where studying was KEY, because one mistake could bump me back another year, and that was unacceptable.

On my first night in the apartment, the manager (whose uniform consisted of Hobie shirts and puka bead necklaces) came over with a wine cooler and told me that I was the only American girl in the place. “It’s you, a couple of American guys, and a bunch of Asians.” (The manager was a bit of a tool, although I do believe he meant well when he visited from time to time to “check in” on me.)

A few months into the semester, he knocked on the door (with a wine cooler) and asked, “Well, are you ready for the story about your apartment?”

Of course I was.

Four years before I moved in, an American girl lived in Apartment 306. She had a boyfriend and their relationship was pretty rocky. One night, the boyfriend came over for a visit. He was drunk, they got into a fight, and he swung an ax at her. Sadly, he had ax skills. The neighbors were freaking out and calling the police and eventually the guy was hauled off and the girl was dead.

Hobie with a Wine Cooler (HWC): You look like you don’t believe me.

Me: I’m not sure I do.

HWC: Then let me show you something.

He lifted up the framed emergency stairwell plan and removed it from the wall. AND, there was the tip of what looked like an ax still embedded in the brick. (Was it really brick? It may have been concrete. I can’t quite remember. Anyway: YIKES.)

HWC: It gets better! TWO years ago, an American girl lived in this apartment, and she went missing. We don’t know if she was kidnapped or what, but the door was wide open and she’s still registered as a missing person. I had to help her parents clear out her stuff so we could rent the place out again! SO, four years ago, and two years ago with zero incidents in any other apartment. I wonder if this will be another crazy year in Apartment 306!

(Edited to add: Both stories were verified by the ROTC guy who lived a few doors down, and I trusted him for three reasons. One, he often wore military fatigues, two, he had lived in his apartment for five years, and three, he wrote really bad poetry and was always willing to read it out loud, which resulted in many awkward “That’s a great poem! Well, I need to get going!” moments.)

((Edited AGAIN to add: His poetry may have actually been very good. I have no idea. Similarly, I sometimes can’t distinguish between Good Jazz and Bad Jazz. Onward!))

And it WAS a crazy year in Apartment 306. It was the year that I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for some friends and was able to cook a 36-inch turkey in a 27-inch oven, all while stomping the roaches that had traveled over from my neighbor’s apartment. (When I reported the roaches to HWC, he came up and we walked over to the next apartment. When he unlocked the door, roaches scattered away from what was probably 38 unwrapped and half eaten snack cakes that Tan (the neighbor) had left on the floor. (I’ll never know why he couldn’t finish a Little Debbie treat. I can eat a Star Crunch in three bites.)

About a week before my graduation ceremony, my best friend and another friend came over to watch movies. At around two in the morning, it suddenly struck me that I had never streaked and there is no time like the present and no present like time! I went into the bathroom and changed into my robe. The plan? Stand in the back doorway (pictured above) to make sure no one is coming. Hand the robe to Best Friend (who promised to keep her eyes closed and to stay at the back door), RUN LIKE THE WIND to the front door and actually enter the front door if anyone was out but if no one was out? KEEP RUNNING all the way around to the back door.

I’ll never forget that run. Not because it was amazing and freeing and TO LIFE! TO LIFE! L’CHAIM!, but because I could hear my heart beating in my head and I was no runner and what if my heart explodes and HEADLIGHTS! DAMNIT!!! sprinkled with a hefty dose of What In The HELL Am I Doing?! I am a BAPTIST!!!

When I returned to the back door, Best Friend handed the robe to me and if I remember correctly, I got dressed and we headed out for Swiss Mushroom Burgers or Ham and Cheese Melts, as we often did.

I was definitely changed after my year in 306, and I’m pleased to report that I made it out alive with a diploma and although a little lost, very much Not Missing. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

So, I just made a fake chicken wrap that’s holding fake chicken, lettuce, avocado, tomatoes, corn, and red onions, and I’ve been stewing on something all morning. I’m sitting the wrap down to talk to you, so this must be important because did you read what I wrapped?! Delicious! The thing I’ve been stewing on sounds like this: It’s almost time for me to find a job. One that makes me get dressed and drive somewhere.

The idea of working outside of the home sort of terrifies me for many reasons. (Terror is a strong emotion, hence the Sort Of. I tend to avoid strong emotions when I can.)

First off? People. I’m not very good with people. I get crazy nervous when there are more than four adults in the room, and I’m not sure many businesses would be all, “Okay. We’ve got a new hire who can’t do more than four adults. Let’s meet in shifts.” More than four adults? I’m staring at a notebook, drawing stick people, craving doughnuts, and simply not paying much attention—especially if people are talking about numbers or using words like Sales Projection or Marketing Estimation Spreadsheet. (It was really hard for me to type those words without falling asleep.)

Secondly? Migraines. I still get them every month. Sometimes I can control them with my cocktail pills and a cold washcloth, but sometimes I have to take what I call Monster Pills, and those make me loopy and dizzy and I need to lie down for a few hours. You can’t just do that at work without being That Lady Who Is Always Sleeping. (No one wants to pay the sleeping lady. I know this is true. It has to be.)

Another thing? The kids. I want to be able to be here when they’re here. If they’re sick, I don’t want to have to juggle. I want to be home. I want to be able to take them to piano and take them to doctor appointments and I don’t want that to be A Thing. I want it to be smooth. Meredith is getting ready to start middle school, and I don’t want to be the stressed out lady who gets home after five and never has time to talk. I don’t like that lady.

Let me just take a break right here to say this: I know I’m whining. I KNOW IT! I actually just requested a book from the library that will help me be a better person, so let’s focus on my blue-skied aspirations instead of my exhausting inability to SUCK IT UP.

The freelance gig has served me fairly well over the past dozen years (I come and go and am here to do laundry and make dinner and shuffle kids and take pills!), but it’s getting a bit harder to find enough work to pay bills. (Please know that we’re not struggling to pay bills. This has nothing to do with that.)

Finally? Because I haven’t worked an office job in a dozen years, I’m terrified (Not sort of. It’s the real thing this time.) that I’ve become unmarketable. I’m a 43-year-old freelance developmental editor, and I can’t really describe what I do because it’s often a clever combination of mish and mash. This means I’m probably destined to go retail, but because I have no idea how to get Netflix to work on our television, I also have zero confidence when it comes to running a credit card.

To quote Lloyd Dobler (because who wouldn’t?): I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.

It’s time to start brainstorming and making dream boards (???) (!!!) and figuring out what color my parachute is or who moved my cheese or something (or other) and I need to eat this wrap because can you smell that? It doesn’t get much better. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Has it really been almost two weeks?

Let’s see. I baked a bunch of strawberry bread, and I’m scheduled to bake even more tomorrow morning.

I had never eaten strawberry bread before last week, and it’s pinching me in the exact spot where zucchini bread currently pinches. (It’s a good pinch.)

I made a strandy scarf. The man who runs the salon where my hair is cut went to Argentina a while back, and he said that this type of scarf was HUGE there. SO, I put one together and might actually sell them at the salon. (Mass production of anything sort of freaks me out, so we’ll see what happens.)

(Disclaimer: I actually look svelte in that photo, which has everything to do with trick photography. I have so many secrets. You should buy me a martini sometime. )

Last Thursday, Tempe and I packed up the car and headed to Grayslake, Illinois for the Midwest Fiber and Folk Art Fair. If you can ignore the fact that my non-smoking hotel room had been smoked in and the fitted sheet was covered with HAIR, we had an amazing time. (I was able to change to a clean air no hair room, and the hotel “reimbursed” me with the gift of my choice: a $10 gift card to an AMC theater or a Snickers candy bar. I went with the card, but found myself awake with a hungry stomach at around 1:00. Why can’t I ever do anything right?!) Bonus information: I ate my first pierogies in Grayslake. They were vegetarian and filled with saurkraut and stop turning up your nose. Also, if you live anywhere near a Portillo’s, please get in there and eat a grilled veggie sandwich. Because you will love it. Because I love it and we’re more alike than different.

Anyway, while at Fiber and Folk, I purchased a ridiculous amount of beautiful roving.

Upon returning to St. Louis, I immediately assembled my wheel and spun up some worsted weight.

Yesterday evening I took that worsted weight and started knitting a cowl.

It sounds like things are the peachiest, doesn’t it?
It’s all part of my formula: Only share 17%. The GOOD 17%.

Vague mutterings regarding the other 83%: Yesterday I spoke with a professional regarding my terrible anxiety when it comes to swimming pools and rivers and lakes and oceans. It was all off the record (i.e., no one was getting paid), and I was made to feel sort of sane because I’m NOT afraid of taking a shower. So there’s that! It’s Tuesday!

The only things written on the calendar for today: Heartworm pills, Migraine pills, Cucumber, Water. Three of the four have been taken care of, and as soon as the dishwasher finishes the Sanitize cycle, I’ll be removing my favorite cup and drinking water. I will drink more water in approximately two hours, and will continue to drink water until it’s time to hit the rack. Water! Drinking it!

We are back from Florida, and instead of singing long American Pie-esque songs about how great it was, I’ll give you the bullet list of superlatives.

Best Meal: The Anything Grows sandwich from The Bubble Room. I would link to the restaurant’s website, but as soon as you go there, terrible music begins to loop and blare and you probably hate that just as much as I do, because: Who doesn’t? Anyway, the Anything Grows holds fresh avocado, basil-garlic marinated mushrooms, tomato, cucumber, lettuce, red onion, Swiss cheese if you want it, and cucumber sauce on a grilled homemade bun. Also, a slice of cake at The Bubble Room is larger than a human skull.

Best Purchase: We didn’t purchase many things during the trip, but after suffering from ridiculous bug bites for the first four days, I finally did a bit of research and bought a bottle of No No-See-Um Spray. I spent the remainder of our trip smelling like a big floppy citronella candle, but it was worth it. Only the strongest of the tiny lint-shaped bugs were able to brave my lemony smell, meaning the bites were reduced by nearly 80%. Bonus Information: My head and neck are STILL all scabby and gross, so although I NEED a haircut, it’s going to be a few days before I feel like I can make that call.

First Runner-Up in the Best Purchase Category: Meredith’s t-shirt.

Most Annoying People in Florida: The people who sat next to us at Cheeburger Cheeburger (where I ate a pretty incredible Portobello Patty Melt) who were reeking of cigarettes and complaining about their “shithole of a Ramada” hotel that “can’t call itself a 4-star hotel if it’s built on a cobblestone street.” I’m all for cursing while around like-minded friends. (I’m very good at strategic F word placement!) HOWEVER, I also vote for filters and class when in the presence of strangers and children (and strange children).

My Favorite Person in Florida: The woman who gave the sea turtle lecture at CROW. She held all of our attention (Did you know that sea turtles have magnetic crystals in their heads that help them return to the exact site where they were born to eventually build their own nests?), and the more she talked about turtles you could see how much she loves turtles and then she actually started LOOKING like a turtle to me. (Sometimes when I look in the mirror for too long, I start looking like Jeff Goldblum.) It was because of her lecture that Jeff (not Goldblum, but my husband Jeff) spent a very rainy morning frantically trying to save the sea turtle nest that had been flooded by the storms. (He’s a gem, that one.)

My Most Conflicted Moment During Vacation: Some of you are thinking SHE ATE FRESH SEAFOOD! No. I did NOT eat fresh seafood. (Nor did I eat stale seafood.) Although I loved being able to talk to the birds who live in huge cages outside of the grocery store in Sanibel, I sort of hated seeing big birds in cages day after day. (We tend to visit the grocery store day after day. For example, yesterday I went to the grocery store. This morning I went to the grocery store. I need to go back tomorrow.) It’s fun to say hello to a bird and hear it say hello back. But then you (meaning I) start saying things like, “What I want is for you to be able to experience life the way it was meant to be. You are a bird who has done nothing wrong to deserve being in prison where your only toys are made of plastic and the nearest like-minded soul is twenty feet away IN ANOTHER CAGE!” and the bird responds by staring into the parking lot. And then it says, “Hello!” and I begin to weep until my mascara creates lines from my astigmatic eyes to my quivering chin.

And what is a blog post if it doesn’t hold photos? Still a blog post, I suppose, but don’t you need (unedited) PROOF that we were on vacation?

The beach was right outside of our condo door, so we often went shelling in our pajamas, which is much different than going to the grocery store in our pajamas, which is something we never do.

One of the three sea turtle nests on our beach.

The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.
-Kate Chopin, “The Awakening”

(I will never pass up the opportunity to share quotes from The Awakening. It’s one of the few books that changed my wiring.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Because Tropical Storm Andrea has forced us to stay indoors and because I’ve already eaten too much Blueberry Morning cereal and drank a bunch of coffee and killed off some Oreos and read for a bit and stared out the window at the rain, there’s really nothing else to do but play (another) game of UNO, or check in with you! Greetings from Sanibel Island where despite the fact that it has rained every single day since we’ve arrived, we’re still making the most of it. (I am Very Good at UNO.)

I recently read David Sedaris’s latest book, and I had to laugh when he mentioned that people tend to get bored with stories of other people’s travel woes. Long Story Shortened: Our flight from St. Louis to Florida last Friday was delayed a total of sixteen times before it was finally canceled. Sometime between the fourteenth and sixteenth delay, the terminal was evacuated and we were forced to hole up in a family restroom with a few strangers to wait out a tornado that supposedly hit the airport at some point during the evening. While in the bathroom, Harper chugged a Sprite, and Meredith frantically journaled the adventure.

Because all direct flights on Saturday were booked, we decided to fly into Ft. Lauderdale and then drive to Sanibel. We arrived at the condo at 11:00 on Saturday night, and here we are.

We’ve had a pretty amazing week with sea turtle lectures and incredible veggie sandwiches and we’re currently under a tornado warning and the sea turtle nest next to our condo has been destroyed by the tide and I know I’m sort of all over the place with the happy and the sad, so let me just continue with that. (I just ate a bowl of Doritos! Let the party begin!) On Tuesday afternoon, we took a dolphin and wildlife cruise, and despite the captain’s announcement that “We’re off to hunt dolphins!” we had an amazing time.

(I’ve never been around dolphins before. It was squealworthy. We could learn a lot from dolphins, because despite the fact that they might be really pissed off, they always seem happy!)

One more thing before I try to convince the girls that we’re not going to be sucked up into a tornado: Fuzzbee Yarns is holding a contest on Ravelry, and the winner will score a braid of fiber. To enter, you submit a photo of something that shows colors you would like to see in a braid of fiber. I submitted the Puppy Yin-Yang photo, and I won the first round of votes. BUT, now there is a poll. And I’m LOSING! In order to win a braid of fiber dyed to look like our foster pups, I need to win that poll. (I’m feeling very long-winded and semi-whiny today. I apologize.) If you have a Ravelry account, please consider following this link and voting for whichever photo you want, but please know that I’m offering up virtual hugs and high-fives if you vote for Yin Yang Puppies. Because I would really like to spin up the fiber and knit a hat to remind our family of our first fostering adventure. (We keep our winter hats in one big shared basket. First come, first served.)

Enjoy your Thursday, and thank you for your patience. You’re just like a dolphin, you know. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Guy at Pet Store: It sounds like passive aggression. We offer a Good Citizen class here for dogs, and Henry might be a good candidate. Actually, I’m in training to be a trainer, and I’ll be teaching the good citizen class in July.

Me: You’re training for training?

Guy at Pet Store: Ha! Yes! They have to train ME before I can train the dogs! HA HA HA!!!

Me: If you sit and stay, do they bone you?

Guy at Pet Store: What?

Me: I mean, do they give you treats?! I HAVEN’T YET HAD PROTEIN TODAY AND I’M SO SORRY RIGHT NOW!!!

Guy: That will be $17.46.

According to the calendar, the next time you hear from me I’ll either be on vacation or I’ll be back from vacation. This morning I bought food for the pups and underwear for me, because good citizens do not chew holes in people’s underwear, and our dogs are NOT good citizens. (Yet.) I’ve also placed my new notebook (It’s my first Moleskine! Let’s plan a parade!) and my fountain pen with a few ink samples in my suitcase, and I shall now offer a huge thank you to my friend Lisa who reminded me that liquids on a plane? Not a great idea, and I would be SO ANGRY if an agent walked away with my tiny bottle of J. Herbin Lierre Sauvage, therefore: suitcase instead of carry on! (Another huge thank you goes out to Tempe for fueling my new obsession—fountain pens and fun ink. She knows me better than I know myself.) The house/dog sitters are ready. Us? Not so much.

We’re headed to Sanibel Island, where Jean Shepherd died in 1999. While there, I’m going to wear my new underpants and lazily hunt out a dessert that holds rhubarb, the girls are expecting to fill their pockets with shells, and Jeff will be anxiously looking over his shoulder for Wilfred Brimley. According to my research, Mr. Brimley has a house in Sanibel. Jeff eats Quaker Oats every single morning for breakfast. (It’s the right thing to do.)

Magic is about to happen. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

School is out for the summer, which means I’m entering Vacation Preparation Mode. It looks like we’ll be taking the girls to see the ocean for the very first time this summer, and although I’m terribly excited, I’m also a little stressed about The Packing of Things and making sure all arrangements have been made as far as pets/house/mail goes. Obviously, I know that if we forget to take something, we can either go without or get a replacement. The only thing I REALLY need to worry about? Pets.

Speaking of pets, do you remember the foster puppies (pets by proxy) who are prancing in my pathtub? (Sometimes you try to go for alliteration and you can’t come up with a P word for bathtub and although Pub sounds really good for many different reasons right now, you eventually just need to loosen your shorts and use your license.)

The remainder of today’s entry is all about the puppies. You can skip right over it if puppies aren’t your thing. Also, please know that I’m turning off comments because if even one person says something like, “It’s only a DOG!” I might start feeling my heart beating in my eyes, and I’m not in the mood for that today.

One of the three puppies (Bug aka Brownie aka Pansy) had to go back to my friend less than twelve hours after coming to our house. She was a tiny little bird who never showed much interest in food, and was getting a little wobbly and lethargic. That was Saturday evening. Since then, sweet Bug has had a blood transfusion, has received a unit of plasma, was on an IV drip, and I found out this morning that she passed away yesterday evening.

Here she is (the light brown pup) with her siblings. Her head is resting on S’more, and Beethoven is telling them jokes to pass the time.

Here she is after receiving a unit of blood at the vet office.

One more. Here she is visiting with S’more for a bit after they hadn’t seen each other in a few days. The photo is pretty lousy. What it doesn’t show is how S’more was cleaning her sister’s ears and licking her face and really wanting to play and it shattered my heart.

(Please know that I took the long way home from the vet that night because this song shuffled onto my iPod, and it turned me into one of those people who probably shouldn’t drive due to a pair of leaky eyes. Sometimes I think my iPod Just Knows.)

Argh. We’re entering a three day weekend and I’m the sloppy bummer sitting in the back of the room wearing a dirty t-shirt and holding a tub of maple syrup.

Wait.

Here.

This is Beethoven. Sleeping on the couch like a puppy. Because that’s what he is and that’s what he does.

This morning I went in and told Beethoven and S’more about their sister and then I gave them a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs and we sat for a bit before they conked out. Sad day.

(I’ll try to do better before the weekend is up.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On Friday afternoon, I received a message from the woman who brought Scout into our lives. She asked if we would be willing to foster three 6-week-old puppies for the next few weeks. We are willing.

Sometimes in life you might suddenly end up having a baby in the house and the baby wakes you up at night and it sucks to have to stand up and move but then you see the baby’s face and suddenly the suck fades away. Welcome to our bathtub of puppies and their q4h checks.

If puppies aren’t your thing, please admire my lettuce.

I actually ate a salad from my garden last week, and it wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t bad. Our garden is slowly growing, and someday this summer I’ll be making a batch of guacamole using nothing but ingredients that are hanging out in my back yard.

A few weeks back (May 8th, if you need specifics), I asked Jeff and the girls if they needed birthday ideas for me. They did. I pointed them toward a bracelet that I was loving on Etsy. The next day, Meredith told me that they tried to order the bracelet, but it had sold on May 7th.

Knowing that it was no longer available, I began to obsess about the bracelet. (I tend to do that.) I checked the shop at least once per day and BANG! Last week the artist listed the bracelet again. Less than 24 hours later, as if by fate, I received a birthday check in the mail from my in-laws for around the same amount as the bracelet. (Are you bored with this story? Sometimes I just type and type and the only person who’s really into it is me.) Anyway, I didn’t use the birthday check to buy the bracelet because I had a lunch gig planned with my college roommate on Sunday, and we were planning on going to an art fair. I didn’t want to spend cash on the bracelet and then NOT buy something from a local artist. (I’m like that.) In the back of my mind? “If I don’t find anything at the art fair, that bracelet is mine on Monday.”

Yesterday afternoon, my roommate (who is no longer my roommate, but I like to keep anonymity alive and kicking) handed me a box and said, “There are two reasons why you may not want to keep this, but, Happy Birthday!”

It’s the bracelet. My friend (the one I ran into back in April) found me on Facebook, had somehow followed a few links to find my Etsy favorites, and had chosen the bracelet because it seemed to be my style. She had no idea that I had been thinking about it and visiting the link for over a week. (She was the person who had purchased it on May 7th.) This is the sort of weirdness that I love and the fact that this bracelet has now found its way to my wrist makes me ridiculously giggly, which really isn’t my style. (Have you ever heard me giggle? You have not.) But there you go.

Hey. Do you remember a few months back when I was knitting a shawl for Virginia’s auction? The auction is now live and it’s here and it has only two more days before it’s over, so please consider visiting and supporting my friend. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On Wednesday evening, a friend and I volunteered to serve refreshments at the fifth grade graduation. Because we tend to have everything under control at all times, we decided to sit in on a bit of the graduation entertainment. (Kids were dancing and singing and making me cry. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.)

The guest speaker this year was Jahidi White, who attended elementary and middle school in our district and then went on to play in the NBA with Michael Jordan, who just so happened to be Jahidi’s biggest inspiration. Mr. White was a TOWER OF POWER on the stage as he encouraged kids to not give earplay to anyone who discourages them from following their dreams. His most important advice? Dream BIG! (He asked the fifth graders to chant “Dream BIG!” during his speech. I loved that, mainly because when a 6’9″ man stands on a stage and tells you to dream big, you just sort of want to do it. Starting now.)

And that’s when things got confusing and hilarious and I started doing the ugly cry—not because of Fiddler on the Roofesque ruminations about seedlings turning overnight to sunflowers and blossoming even as we gaze, but because our motivational speaker may have just encouraged 65 fifth graders to join the Wu-Tang Clan.

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