On Being Lucky

I found a penny on my way into work Monday morning. I almost never pick up pennies that I see on the ground. Because it's not really worth the effort. (What? Bending is hard.) But I thought, What the heck? I could use all the luck I can find. Not because I'm superstitious. Just because I'm desperate. Desperate for luck. So I did. I reached down and picked it up. 

And guess what? Not only was it lying there face up (the lucky side) BUT it also happened to have my birth year on it (EXTRA lucky!!)
I know what you're thinking. Your birth year? Did they even have pennies when you were born? Didn't people just use pretty rocks and woolly mammoth fur balls for currency then? While it's very funny of you to think that, it's not very nice. Shame on you.

I brought it into work with me and set it on my desk thinking, this is going to be a stellar day of luck for me. And guess what? It wasn't. It was just a regular, ordinary busy-at-work-suffocating-on-homework-not-enough-time-for-children-I-can't-believe-my-house-is-so-disgusting day. As per usual.

I've thought a lot about luck this week. Mostly because Abraham Lincoln's copper profile is still sitting at my desk taunting me. Like, "Hello! What did you expect? Remember how "lucky" I was??"  

When I think of people who are lucky I think of people who seemingly just stumble onto good fortune: great jobs, inheritances, luxury vacations, talent, success, killer deals at Ross. Those kind of people. My name is not usually one that comes to mind. 

Most of the time I feel decidedly unlucky. I feel like no matter how much I struggle or how hard I work or how bad I want it, prosperity and serendipity are just not in the cards for me. Nope. Just disappointment and trials. Seemingly endless trials.

I took my 14-year old to a doctor's appointment yesterday. A doctor's appointment that turned into the discovery of a rare foot-joint dislocation (the doctor said he'd only seen it once before) that turned into a same day surgery that turned into me missing a whole (unpaid) day of work to sit with her in the hospital for seven hours, mostly just waiting. Did I mention that we had JUST had her very last appointment with the orthopedist last week for a patellar dislocation that happened 6 months ago? True story. The girl just can't seem to keep her bones...located.

As I walked out of the grocery store after waiting in an almost eternal line to pick up her prescription, I saw another penny on the ground. I laughed. Like an out loud, complete-with-snorting guffaw. 

And I reflected on the day for just a second. A day I got to spend almost entirely alone with my beautiful 14-year old daughter. We half-watched some TV, laughed at puns (mostly her), worried (mostly me), complained about how hungry we were (both of us), put sticky EKG leads on inappropriate places (me), texted (both), made calls (me), Snapchatted (her) and hung out in comfortable silence for some of the time, too. Oh, she also told me facts about bison. (Bisons? Beeson?) She's like a walking encyclopedia, that one. (An encyclopedia? It's like Wikipedia. Except a book. And written by experts.)

I thought about how lucky I was for that rare day. How lucky I am to have the brilliantly wonderful, gorgeous children I have. How lucky I am that they call me mom. And want me to be with them when they are worried or scared or hurt. How lucky I am to have friends who asked if they could bring dinner, and kept my 6-year old, and drove my husband around. How lucky I am that the surgery went as well as it possibly could have. How lucky I am that my kids are healthy and (mostly) happy. How lucky I am to be their one-and-only-stuck-with-me-forever-whether-they-like-it-or-not mommy.   

So I didn't pick up that penny. Cuz, really...who needs it?

You Down With DST? Uh...NO!

Yes. Yes it is.

There are undoubtedly things that can be saved. For instance:

A seat at a band concert. Sometimes for an actual person. And sometimes for a mystery person who never shows up. Because you really like your personal space.

Money. You can do this by waiting for a movie to hit the discount theatre. Or by buying Marshmallow Mateys & Dr. Shasta. Or by living somewhere devoid of a Ross. Or a Target. (Note: Do NOT do this by purchasing Little Debbies. Or 1-ply toilet paper.)

Energy. By binge-watching Netflix in bed. Instead of cleaning. Or laundry. Or moving.

Gasoline. By never going anywhere that isn't absolutely necessary (see above). Or isn't at least 20 degrees warmer. 

Shoes. By owning so many pairs, that none of them ever wear out.

Water. By turning off the tap while you brush your teeth. Or showering with Gerard Butler, if he happens to stop by, instead of taking two separate showers.

However, there are also things that cannot be saved. For example:

Candy. Because your children will find it. No matter what. No. Matter. What.

Soda. (see Candy) To paraphrase: No mountain high enough.

Restaurant Leftovers. Because your husband will eat them. Without fail. And insist he did you a favor because "they were going bad."

Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. (see Restaurant Leftovers)

Daylight. You can call it whatever you want. Daylight cannot be saved. Daylight Saving Time serves absolutely no earthly purpose. Like the Kardashians. But even more insidious. Because I don't lose sleep over the Kardashians. Only my faith in humanity. Which I can afford to lose. 

I cannot, however, afford to lose sleep. 

Neither can I handle having to wake up children whose tiny little bodies feel like it's an hour earlier than the clock says. BECAUSE IT IS! But who still won't go to bed any earlier because it seems too light outside. BECAUSE IT IS!

I tried to do a little research on how and why it all started. But it was too complex. And taking too long (see Energy.) It was almost as perplexing as the concept itself. I don't get it. I hate it. By some miracle of science & solstices & equinoxes & Earth's rotation & revolution, the days already get longer. ALL BY THEMSELVES! We have more hours of sunlight in the spring and summer than we do in the fall and winter. AUTOMATICALLY! It's amazing. 

And yet. That's somehow not good enough. WHY??? I don't know.

A bill to put an end to DST has been proposed in Utah on multiple occasions. But it never passes. The groups opposed to it? The Utah Farm Bureau. (Because they like waking up when it's darker and colder?) Ski Utah. (Because people ski at 8 o'clock at night? Ever??) And the Utah Golf Association. (Aren't 89% of golfers in bed by 7? Watching reruns of Bonanza?)

The people in favor? Everyone else. Parents. Children. Educators. Regular human beings.

Just another reason to move to Arizona. Or Hawaii.

Spring forward? I don't wanna. You spring forward. 

Swimsuit Shopping: The Original Suidical Ideation

Swimsuit catalogs are arriving in the mail. And not a moment too soon. I mean, months and months too soon if you live in Cedar City, Utah. BUT, if Spring Break is coming up and you are planning to make a break for Goodyear, Arizona...not a moment too soon. 

Except for one teensy, weensy thing: 
I hate buying a swimsuit. I hate trying on a swimsuit. I hate wearing a swimsuit. 

I want to say that the last time I felt good in a swimsuit was about...4 children and two decades ago. 

My youngest child is 6. I think I might've finally hit my pre-pregnancy weight when he was...maybe 4. (And that was my pre-pregnancy with HIM weight. Not my pre-childbearing weight.) 
I've been working out pretty regularly for the last 2 years. I am almost to the point where I feel fairly confident about how I look in (most) clothes. Do you know what feeling good in clothes does not translate into? That's right. Feeling good in a swimsuit. 

The first catalog to arrive was Victoria's Secret. This is the suit I want:

OK. That's a lie. I mean, the swimsuit is cute as heck, but let's be honest: I could give a crap about the suit. What I really want? To LOOK like that in a swimsuit. Any swimsuit. I'm not picky.

I was feeling pretty daring last year and thought maybe I could pull off one of those cute high-waisted numbers like this:

Because I think that two inches of my stomach might actually be free of PTBW (Post Traumatic Baby Wounds.) So I ordered one online. I even got it two sizes bigger than what I normally wear. (Because fool me once, China...) And then it arrived. What they didn't tell you? Apparently that model's torso is exactly 6 inches long. From collarbone to navel. Because that gap was more like 18 inches. (And I DEFINITELY have PTBW on that part of my stomach.) Also, that they don't make this swimsuit in regular people sizes. Because an XL fit my 5'6" 104 lb 13-year-old. EXTRA LARGE!

The DownEast catalog came next. And there's some really cute suits in there too. But again, everything looks cute on a 98 lb 20-year-old. I mean, come on...

Women with thighs like this, do NOT buy swimsuit bottoms like this. Oh, you didn't know those were her thighs? You thought those were two loose threads hanging down? Yeah, me too.

I know exactly what you're thinking. I am setting feminism back 80 years by whining and moaning about how I look in a swimsuit.

Because I should be judging myself on how I nurture, and love, and think, and create. Whatever.

I wish I was setting women back 80 years.

Because then we'd all be wearing swimsuits like this:

And I'm pretty sure I could ROCK that look.

Dear School: I Hate Your Stinking Guts

Three weeks. It's not a very long span. Especially when Christmas and New Years take up much of that time. But it seemed like a blissful eternity to have 3 whole weeks off after Fall semester and before starting Spring semester. Three glorious, Netflix-filled, family-snuggling, dinner-making, carefree weeks.

And then...just like that, it was over. And hell on Earth began in earnest once more. 

Each semester seems to be just a little bit worse than the one before it. 
And this one came with a full-on vengeance. 

I started classes just last Monday. And I think I've cried, if not real tears than at the very least, near-tears (not to be confused with near-beer, although shockingly, even more unsavory) probably about 4 times. And dropped a class. (Don't worry, I replaced it with something only slightly less horrible.)

I know what you're dying to ask. Why? Why, Cyndie? What makes this hellish semester any different than all the other hellish semesters before it? Well, I'll tell you:

The Workload
I'm not a fan of textbooks. Or hugely long supplemental pdf files. As much as I like to read. Textbooks? Well, they're not even on my list. I would rather read the German assembly instructions that come with pressed wood bookshelves. Really and truly. Wirklich und wahrhaftig.

I have been able to get away with skimming, or skipping altogether the textbook reading thus far in my schooling and picked up the info through lectures or slides. Preferably both. But this semester? Not a single lecture. Not a single slide. And every grade based on quiz and test scores. Which are based on obscure facts found in ridiculous, superfluous amounts of readings. In every. Single. Class.

It turns out that, generally speaking, the highest-paid, greatest-credentialed, most-experienced, tenured professors spend infinitely less time and energy teaching their classes than the lowly adjunct staff and assistant professors. 
Ah yes, the American dream. 

Maybe they just went to school for too long and they're sick to death of it. That, I can understand.

The Ex is Back
Remeber that time I broke up with statistics? That was a happy, happy day. I thought I was done with him. At least in my school life. I thought we were finished. I thought he'd leave me alone and go find some other innocent girl to torment.

Nope. Like a stalking, abusive ex-boyfriend or Poltergeist II, he's baaaack.

There is a required class I signed up for this semester called Principles & Applications of Psychological Testing. Which I, foolishly, thought would involve...I don't know...basic principles and real-life applications of psychological testing. Like methodology and ethics and crap. I could not have been more wrong. (I could try. But I would not be successful.)

All statistical formulas. Mostly ones I don't even remember learning.
And did I mention there are no lectures? Only 20 different 30+ problem, 8-page "optional exercises" you can do to prepare for the 5 exams. Oh, and a textbook. The only thing less helpful than a statistics text is a two-year old folding laundry. 

Don't worry, I got to problem #3 on Optional Exercise 1 before I had no idea how to do anything else. And had a complete breakdown.

Then I dropped the class. I will deal with it this summer when I am only taking 3 credits instead of 15.

Worn Down
I'm so close. (In the scheme of things.) The end is (semi) near. I can be done by December. Of THIS year. That's amazing. The end is in sight. And it should be invigorating. 

It is not.

I am tired. I am depleted. I am weary. I miss my life. I don't want to do it anymore. 

Not to mention the loans. And the GRE. And the decisions about graduate school. Utah? Arizona? California? Nevada? North Carolina?
Evening cohort program? Online? Assistantship?? 
Where's Zoltar when you need him? 

To top it off, I just discovered yesterday that when I am finished with the required classes I have left, I will be one credit shy of the necessary credits for a degree. I will have 119 instead of 120. 

One. Freaking. Credit. And there are no one-credit classes for online students. Of course there aren't. 

It would actually be sad if it weren't so funny. Or funny if it weren't so sad. I can't remember which.

So if I am noticeably absent from the blogosphere in the coming months, know that it is because this semester is trying to kill me. 

I am quite sure I saw it positioned around the canyon corner on the desert path where I like to run, sneakily holding on to a rope pulley system, poised to drop an anvil on my head when I zip by.

And just the other day it tried to disguise its mouth to look like a swanky restaurant so that I would walk in unsuspecting and it could eat me alive.

Mean semester. 

Star Wars: The Dork Awakens

A (not so terribly) long time ago in a galaxy (not so very) far, far away...

A sister and brother were born. Their sad, beautiful mother died in childbirth and to protect them from a father who had become an evil lord (and was just evilly whiney prior to that) they were sent to a home in California. They were raised, not as twins, but as siblings who were two years apart. The "Sky" was dropped from their name (for safeguarding purposes and all.) 

Leaving it as merely Walker.

This may or may not have been the fantasy that filled much of my childhood imaginings. I mean, my last name WAS Walker. And my brother and I? Well, the force was strong with us. Let me tell you.

So imagine my surprise when I texted him after seeing The Force Awakens and said: STAR WARS!!!!! And he responded back with: Yep. Star Wars!! 

I should have known by the not-all-caps response. And the two exclamation points instead of four. But I kept pushing: Did you see it?? Did you love it!?
He replied: Yes and I really liked it. But am I allowed to be a little disappointed?

No. No you are not. And I will tell you why. 

Because I didn't love Episode I-III (I know, I know. My true fan rating just went way down.) And I wasn't even super excited for Episode VII. (I mean, Yoda is dead. How awesome could it be?)

But...It. Was. Fabulous. 
And sure, maybe a little (lot) reminiscent of Episode IV. But do you remember what happened with New Coke?? There's a reason they stopped making it. 
A very good reason.

So what did I love about it? Well, kind of everything. (Just ask my husband, whose arm I hit excitedly and repeatedly through the entire movie.) But a few things in particular:

The Old Gang
What can I say? I love them all. 
You can regard your Henry all you want. You can chase your Fugitive. Hijack your President Marshall. You can dig your Indiana Jones. For me? There is just one role that Harrison Ford was born to play. Han Solo. He just was. 
And sure. I sat there just like everyone else trying to figure out just how old Carrie Fisher actually is. But just like I have learned not to judge how people parent, how dirty their house is, or how many pairs of black boots they own...as I continue to get older, I have learned not to judge how people age. I mean, we can't all be Chewie.
C3PO? Just as obnoxious and robotically annoying as ever. (Contented sigh.) 
And, yes, the absence of Yoda was keenly felt by me. But as far as I'm 
concerned, no Yoda at all is still better than computer-animated Yoda.

The Falcon
Am I giving anything away here? Well, too bad if I am. You should have already seen it by now. 
I had a Ford Festiva once. I think it cost me $500. It ran and ran and ran and ran. And ran. It got me from California to Utah and back more times than I can count. 
Did it shake when I went over 50 miles an hour? Like Oola, the Twil'lek slave dancer. 
Did the driver side mirror have to be duct-taped on more than once? You bet your Jabba the Butt it did. 
But it never once broke down on me. Not once in all the years I had it. And I bet if I were to come across it now, half buried in the sands of the distant planet of Jakku...it would still get me across the hyperspace route of the I-15. It may take a little longer than twelve parsecs. But it would get me there. 


The Stormtroopers
When I was a kid, we had one of those tall metal wall heaters in the hallway. I don't remember anymore if it was me or one of my siblings who used to have nightmares about Stormtroopers emerging from it in the night. (I think it was a younger sibling. I mostly had nightmares about how my dad would bogart it every morning while the rest of us would hover nearby shivering.) Regardless of who it was, the truth is...Stormtroopers were scary. And somehow, 30+ years later, they still are. There have been a few small tweaks here and there. But essentially, the uniforms are the same. The blasters the same. They don't need a sleek updated new look. Because a legion of synchronized, marching, anonymous, evil soldiers? Still scary as hell. Which just tells you how awesome the original series was in the first place. 

This far from covers all of the things I loved about the movie. Whiney new bad guy: Loved. Oscar Isaac: Loved more. No Jar Jar: Loved the most. 

But the best things were the things that reminded me of the movies I loved as a young Jedi-wannabe. Light speed. Droids. X-Wing & TIE Fighters. Jedi mind tricks. The score. Oh the score. It gives me goosebumps still. 

I recently saw one review that said that it is ridiculous to bill this movie as a sequel when it is merely a remake.

I have just four words for you, Star Wars-hater guy:

If it ain't broke...